



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Chap J?Z3Copyright No, 

Shelf..,_A.T5Ll 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

















\ 

















s 




J 


> 

























































































































































✓ 














r 























* 











































Xo. 64 


V) 


25 as. 


y 


Copyright, 1885, 
by Harper & Brothers 


March 26, 1886 


Subscription Price 
per Year, 52 Numbers, $1$ 


Entered at the Post-Office Rt New York, as Second-class Mail Matter 



IN SHALLOW WATERS 



Books you may hold readily in your hand are the most useful , after all 

Dr. Johnson 


NEW YORK 

HARPER k BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS 

1886 


HARPER’S HANDY SERIES. 


No. 


Latest Issues. 


CENTS. 


29. The Dark House. A Novel. By G. Manville Fenn 25 

30. The Ghost’s Touch, and Other Stories. By Wilkie Collins 25 

31. The Royal Mail. By James Wilson Hyde. Illustrated 25 

32. The Sacred Nugget. A Novel. By B. L. Farjeon 25 

33. Primus in Indis. A Romance. By M. J. Colquhoun 25 

34. Musical History. By It. A. Macfarren 25 

35. In Quarters with the 25th Dragoons. By J. S. Winter 25 

36. Goblin Gold. A Novel. By May Crommelin 25 

3 7. The Wanderings of Ulysses. By Prof. C. Witt. Translated 

by Frances Younghusband 25 

38. A Barren Title. A Novel. By T. W. Speight 25 

39. Us: An Old-fashioned Story. By Mrs. Molesworth. Ill’d. . . . 25 

40. Ounces of Prevention. By Titus Munson Coan, A.M., M.D. ... 25 

41. Half-Way. An Anglo-French Romance 25 

42. Christmas Angel. A Novel. By B. L. Farjeon. Illustrated. . . 25 

43. Mrs. Dymond. A Novel. By Miss Thackeray . 25 

44. The Bachelor Vicar of Newfortii. A Novel. By Mrs. J. ilar- 

court-Roe 25 

45. In the Middle Watch. A Novel. By W. Clark Russell 25 

46. Tiresias, and Other Poems. By Alfred, Lord Tennyson 25 

47. Last Days at Apswicii. A Novel 25 

48. Cabin and Gondola. By Charlotte Dunning 30 

49. Lester’s Secret. A Novel. By Mary Cecil Hay 30 

50. A Man of Honor. A Novel. By J. S. Winter. Illustrated ... 25 

51. Stories of Provence. From the French of Alphonse Daudet. 

Bv S. L. Lee 25 

52. ’Twixt Loye and Duty. A Novel. By Tighe Hopkins 25 

53. A Plea for the Constitution, &c. By George Bancroft 25 

64. Fortune’s Wheel. A Novel. By Alex. Innes Shand .... 25 

55. Lord Beaconsfield’s Correspondence with his Sister — 

1832-1852 25 

56. Mauleverer’s Millions. A Yorkshire Romance. By T. Wemvss 

Reid ! 25 

57. What Does History Teach? Two Edinburgh Lectures. By 

John Stuart Blackie 25 

58. The Last of the Mac Allisters. A Novel. By Mrs. Amelia E. Barr. 25 

59. Cavalry Life. Sketches and Stories. By J. S. Winter 25 

60. Movements of Religious Thought in Britain during the Nine- 

teenth Century. By John Tulloch, D.D., LL.D 25 

61. IIurrish : A Study. By the Hon. Emily Lawless 25 

62. Irish History for English Readers. By Wm. Stephenson Gregg. 25 

63. Our Sensation Novel. By Justin H. McCarthy 25 

64. In Shallow Waters. A Novel. By Annie Armitt 25 


Other volumes in preparation. 

J8® 3 * Harter & Brothers will send any of the above works by mail , postage pre- 
paid, to any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 




IN SHALLOW WATERS. 






PART I. 

LESS THAN FRIENDS. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HOUSEHOLD AT “THE STEPPING-STONES.” 

Agnes Leake’s departure for Australia created much 
interest in the little world which had known her from a 
child. Even the marriage of her sister Kate failed to be 
regarded as a more considerable event. Agnes had al- 
ways been a pretty, gentle creature, full of fastidious sen- 
sibilities, and noticeable for her refined taste. Her broth- 
ers and sisters had spoiled her; her friends had humored 
her; she was young enough and sweet enough to be par- 
doned some caprices, and to be indulged in many inno- 
cent fancies. She had been protected from the rough- 
nesses of life, and her natural shrinking from unpleasant 
experiences had, therefore, rather increased than dimin- 
ished as she developed from childhood to delicate girl- 
hood. She was not clever, but she had various pleasant 
accomplishments, a sweet voice, a soft touch, and a gen- 
tly entreating manner. More than one man had admired 
her, perhaps beyond her deserts; but in spite of her ap- 
parent softness and yielding tenderness, her affections 
were not readily gained. So at least it seemed when she 
refused, one after the other, four suitors, whose advances 
were favored by her family. 

It is true that her sisters were consoled in each case by 


2 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


feeling that Agnes might do better. Her first lover was 
a young man only a couple of years older than herself, 
who fell in love with her girlish prettiness ; and her sister 
Susie remarked that, if Agnes had accepted him, they 
would have been, after all, only a couple of children to- 
gether. Then there was a middle-aged suitor, old enough 
to be her father, who would have been admirably adapted 
to guide and cherish her youthful inexperience. But — in 
the light of her rejection of this marriage — it was seen 
by her friends to have threatened a serious sacrifice of 
that gayety to which her age entitled her. 

When a London barrister, a friend of her brother’s, of- 
fered her, on the other hand, a somewhat brilliant social 
position, it was readily perceived — by means of her reluc- 
tance to avail herself of this opportunity — that a life of 
festivity and perpetual entertainment was unsuited to her 
domestic habits. 

The unexpected surrender to her sweetness of a neigh- 
boring vicar, who was neither too old nor too young, too 
rich nor too poor, seemed to leave at last no proper pre- 
text for Agnes Leake’s refusal to marry; but she discov- 
ered that he was “too good;” she was as much dismayed 
and horrified at his proposal as if the pulpit itself, in 
which she had often heard him preach, had made her an 
offer of marriage. Then her sisters became at once aware 
that he was very strict in his views, and that much visit- 
ing of poor parishioners, and attendance on early services, 
would be injurious to Agnes. As on other occasions, they 
perceived that a happy instinct had saved her from ac- 
cepting a position in which she would ultimately suffer, 
and they were glad to keep her at home a little longer. 

It was somewhat remarkable that so many men should 
place themselves at the disposal of this one girl, whose 
prettiness was of no brilliant sort ; but while her manners 
were sweet enough to suggest an easy conquest of her af- 
fections, her character was passive enough for most men to 
fit their own ideal upon, and to see it as they would like it 
to be. It is probable that none of them, except, perhaps, 
the youngest of all, would have committed themselves so 
easily to a definite offer of marriage, if they had not felt 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


3 


a pleasant assurance of meeting with no obstacle beyond 
a little charming shyness. They were all as much sur- 
prised at being refused as Agnes was at being proposed to, 
although, on thinking it over, none of them could remem- 
ber what had been the grounds of his over-confidence. 
The fact was that the negative sweetness of Agnes 
Leake’s manner was as favorable to the encouragement of 
a pleasant illusion as was the passiveness of her character. 
She was without ardent imagination or intellectual ambi- 
tion. Her affection was of a clinging, demanding sort — not 
passionate, not daring, not speculative, nor venturesome. 
She loved the things and persons to whom she was accus- 
tomed, because in intercourse with these there was no 
fear of unpleasant surprises. She was quite happy at 
home, and shrank from the thought of a new start in life, 
which would compel her to a readjustment of her habits 
and also of her emotions. She was not yet old enough to 
have experienced any dropping away of early ties, there- 
fore she had no idea of the necessity of forming new ones 
to replace them. 

She had two brothers and four sisters, all older than 
herself. Susie, the eldest of the sisters, had been for many 
years a careful mother to the others; Anna and Ellen rep- 
resented the serious element in the family, intellectual 
and religious, but not very deeply so ; while Kate and Ag- 
nes were the household darlings and close companions of 
each other. 

When Agnes was nineteen, Kate astonished her by ac- 
cepting the proposal of Mr. John Langford (commonly 
called “ Jack”), and promising to go to Australia as his 
wife. Kate was considered by her friends more brilliant 
and accomplished than Agnes, but her beauty had failed 
to procure for her in so high a degree that accepted so- 
cial diploma of womanly success — the admiration of many 
men. Perhaps Agnes was at first disappointed to find 
that her favorite sister accepted so readily the opportuni- 
ty of changing her name and home; but she soon learned 
to look upon the engagement as a pleasant experience, 
novel and enjoyable in its reflected interest. 

A separation from Kate would have been undoubtedly 


4 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


painful to her, but it was arranged that she should ac- 
company the young couple to Australia, and spend a year 
with them there. Susie hoped that this interval of ab- 
sence and change would break the keenness of the part- 
ing between the two sisters, and that Agnes would return 
home less wedded to old circumstances, and not so firmly 
resolved against any step which must take her permanent- 
ly into a new home and a new circle. 

Meanwhile, strange as it might seem, Agnes showed 
little reluctance to leave England in this way. The 
change, which had seemed wholly beyond her power to 
accept when it was offered in the form of marriage to her- 
self, came as a natural thing to her when it was a conse- 
quence of the marriage of Kate. Kate was bright, brave, 
and full of spirit ; Agnes watched her, and listened to her 
with a pleasant admiration as the preparations for depart- 
ure went forward. For Agnes seemed to enjoy the idea 
of a new household, where Kate — her companion and equal 
— would be the head, and even looked forward with pleas- 
ure to the long voyage she was to take under the shelter- 
ing wing of her sister. The whole affair brought back to 
her memory pleasant holidays of childhood when Susie* 
had given consent to some unwontedly bold undertaking 
on the part of the two youngest sisters, and Agnes had 
followed the daring inspirations of Kate, and been pro- 
tected by her superior spirit. Now, as then, she was still 
to be the “little one,” having no importance as an actor, 
but every importance as a person to be taken care of; 
and this was the position to which she was accustomed, 
and which she did not care to change for any other. 

Nevertheless, her elder sisters hoped that this new ex- 
perience would give her the self-confidence she required, 
and cure her of too strong an attachment to her old home. 

Marriage, they all thought, would be “ so suitable ” for 
Agnes. Miss Leake — Susie — thought so with especial 
decision; though marriage had never entered into her 
ideas as something desirable for herself. She was happi- 
ly occupied in the management of a household, and in 
filling the important position of elder sister to a large 
family. The house which she occupied with her sisters 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


5 


was her own — her income was a little larger than theirs ; 
therefore she had that power of being generous, and that 
right to decide, which add so much to the natural influ- 
ence of seniority. The same absorption in family affec- 
tion which rendered Agnes indifferent to her suitors had 
also kept Miss Leake from wandering into any of those 
by-paths of sympathy and friendship which often lead to 
matrimony. But her family affection was of the kind 
which is occupied in giving, instead of that which is satis- 
fied in receiving. In spite of handsome looks and pleasant 
manners, she had attracted no man sufficiently to encour- 
age him to attempt to overcome her evident indifference. 
A capable woman who has found her destiny and is whol- 
ly satisfied with it, is ordinarily — except in her earliest 
youth — as safe from the attentions of lovers as a happily 
married wife. There is something in the perpetual pre- 
occupation of her mind in her chosen duties, something 
also in the non-expectation of her manners, which effectu- 
ally exclude the possibility of those sympathetic awaken- 
ings to an interest in another life, which — oftener than 
mere grace and beauty — make the beginning of passion- 
ate attachments. A capable woman not completely occu- 
pied by her chosen life is in a different position ; but Miss 
Leake had always been actively and evidently content in 
her own little circle. One member of it after another was 
continually requiring her kind attention, her thoughtful 
care, her wise advice. She was always arranging, work- 
ing, scheming, for the welfare of her younger sisters; and 
if some suitor, spurred by his appreciation of her devo- 
tion to her family, had suggested that she should transfer 
that devotion to himself, she would have listened with 
mere wonder and indignation at his presumption. 

But her plans for her sisters were not laid out on the 
pattern of her own life. It was as natural for her to hope 
for new homes and new interests on their behalf as it 
would have been to reject them on her own. It had been 
an unspoken disappointment to her that Anna and Ellen 
remained so long under her roof. Ellen had, indeed, once 
been weak enough to receive with too much encourage- 
ment the attentions of a poor curate, but that affair had 


G 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


happily, under the chilling discountenance of Miss Leake 
herself, come to nothing. It was a little provoking that 
no more eligible suitor had “ come forward ” on behalf of 
either of the two sisters next to herself in age. They were 
not very important personages in themselves ; she would 
have liked to see them shining in reflected importance as 
heads of prosperous households. Kate’s engagement was 
therefore an unmitigated satisfaction to her ; for Mr. 
Langford’s family was good, and his means were good, 
although he was a younger son. She did not waste re- 
grets over Kate’s departure for Australia ; a dozen years 
abroad would do the girl no harm, she thought ; and she 
well knew that all the members of her family could not 
find prosperous settlements within the narrow range of 
Elmdale. Of her two brothers, the elder already prac- 
tised in London as a barrister ; the younger had gone out 
to India a couple of years ago. It was an actual satisfac- 
tion to Miss Leake to send branches of her household to 
take root abroad, and return from time to time to the 
quiet valley where she planned their lives, and from which 
she watched their careers. Kate was, she considered, just 
the girl for a colonist, full of the cheerful enjoyment of 
youth, and eager to find pleasure in every new experience. 
She had no doubts or fears on her behalf. 

The season in Elmdale which preceded Kate’s marriage 
was a bright and happy one. The household at “The 
Stepping - stones,” as Miss Leake’s pretty residence was 
called, was full of gayety and cheerful preparations. The 
dull monotony of ordinary existence in the valley was 
overcome by the sunshine of happy circumstances. The 
coming and going of the future bridegroom, the visits of 
friends, and all the arrangements and preparations in which 
Miss Leake delighted, filled the last months with interest 
and pleasure. 

Miss Leake revelled in an atmosphere of social prosper- 
ity. She was pleased (and secretly proud) that Kate’s 
wedding should come at the right time and in the right 
way. She always felt herself responsible to the world 
for what occurred in her household ; all events there 
should come like seasonable and well-ripened fruit, bear- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


7 


in g signs of inward health and outward sunshine, having 
the fine bloom as well as the sweet flavor which testified 
that they were fruits of a good stock. Marriage should 
come at a suitable age to those who were destined for it, 
just as preserving or house-cleaning should be done in the 
proper season. The outward fitness of things was con- 
sidered important by Miss Leake, and consoled her some- 
times for much inward inconvenience. Better to be un- 
comfortable privately than to apologize publicly : such 
was her secret theory. Therefore everything was prop- 
erly ordered in her household and properly arranged in 
her sisters’ education. 

She had secured for them “ the best instruction ” to a 
moderate extent. They were not permitted to be alto- 
gether ignorant of anything that might be spoken of or 
written about in polite society. Their knowledge was 
undoubtedly superficial, and their accomplishments did 
not go far in any direction; but there was nothing Miss 
Leake desired less than to make them prodigies. She 
wished them to move easily and successfully in life, as 
she conceived it, and she secured to them what she re- 
garded as the necessary instruction to this end. They 
were human pegs carefully rounded to fit without diffi- 
culty into comfortable holes, and — having rounded the 
pegs — she was glad that they should justify her fore- 
thought by slipping without difficulty into the places 
open to them. 

She did not admire clever girls, and was never enthusi- 
astic in her praise of good ones — those at least who were 
specially marked out as such by their parochial visitations 
and love of week-day services. She never spoke openly 
against these devotees; her disapprobation took the form 
of compassion in public; for religion was one of her own 
chief supports, both socially and mentally ; but then she 
always kept it, like everything else, “ in its proper place.” 
She was. inclined to insinuate that any one who made a 
very visible application of herself to heavenly things must 
be drawn thereto by a lack of earthly prosperity. It had 
never been necessary for herself or any member of her 
family to make an interest in her life out of ordinances 


8 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


and ceremonials ; the proper conduct of her affairs, the 
attention to her “daily duties” had been sufficient. . 

“Poor thing!” she would say of a girl who distributed 
tracts too freely, “she has been very unfortunate. No 
doubt it occupies her mind.” Or she would remark of 
another whose attendance at all the church-services was 
becoming too prominent: “Poor girl! Yes. She has 
such bad health; all her brothers had.” 

Her sister Anna was a little too clever for her taste, 
having shown some slight inclination to study after leav- 
ing school. Her sister Ellen had also disappointed her a 
little. She had exhibited an early tendency to that su- 
perlative goodness which may be better developed in later 
life, when it has been clearly proved that no other course 
is to be followed — no other duty , Miss Leake would have 
said. She had no good opinion of those who sought to 
be amateurs in social life, picking their own work, and 
addicted to over-much charity when they ought to have 
been making themselves useful in their own homes. She 
was a great supporter and admirer of her vicar, but she 
had such strong opinions on this and similar points that 
she was frequently a thorn in his side. She would not 
permit a word to be said against his sermons by any mem- 
ber of her household, but she would not yield a jot to 
his opinion on any affair of her own. 

Kate was allowed to teach in the Sunday-school, but 
Agnes was pronounced “not strong enough;” and Kate’s 
Sunday duties were not permitted to interfere with the 
length of any visit, or to be fulfilled at any risk. A wet 
day, or scarlet-fever in the village, left the vicar to dis- 
pose of her class as he could. Also, Miss Leake sub- 
scribed very willingly to refuges for the destitute and 
reformatories for the criminal classes; but she distinctly 
declined to give a supper to any ragged boys in her kitch- 
en, or to attempt the conversion of any pilfering girl into 
a good servant. She had a strong fund of “common- 
sense,” which guided her safely through many difficulties 
without providing her with any good reason for the course 
she followed ; and she had a certain mental acuteness, 
which kept her alive to the state of polite taste and opin- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


9 


ion on matters which she had never studied deeply her- 
self. She was aware of the value of her own sound sense, 
and careful not to wander far into the dangerous regions 
of argument. She relied upon character and conduct as 
the weights to give value to her spoken opinion; and in 
her own circle she was regarded as a very great author- 
ity* 

She was an authority which her younger sisters had 
never questioned. All her arrangements concerning them 
were so obviously for their own benefit, that it would have 
been unreasonable to receive them with any demur. She 
was even over-indulgent to the two younger ones, having 
learned to regard their happiness and comfort as of ab- 
solute and not relative value. She seemed to forget that 
they had any duty in the world except to make the very 
best of it, and to find as much enjoyment there as possi- 
ble. When they were emancipated from study, she sup- 
plied them with pleasure as diligently as she had once 
supplied them with tasks, and was anxious that they should 
apply themselves as heartily to the one as they had done 
to the other. She had, indeed, the same healthy delight 
in seeing young people happy that she had in seeing trees 
bloom or downy chickens plume themselves in the sun- 
shine ; and she was a little inclined to forget, now that 
the passage of years had taken her from the regions of 
girlhood, that even those happy years had their own re- 
sponsibilities, and could not be accepted as mere oppor- 
tunities of enjoyment. 

She was very proud of Kate, who was full of a bright 
talent which it would be unkind to call superficial, be- 
cause it was genuine and unaffected as far as it went. 
Miss Leake classed her as “ brilliant,” in speaking of her 
to her friends, and took care that her fine voice should 
be well trained, and her tall young figure handsomely 
dressed. 

But she was fondest of Agnes, the “ home -bird,” the 
child who never had an opinion of her own, nor a desire 
which it would be difficult to gratify. Kate sometimes 
made a light struggle over a minor point, such as what 
dress she ought to wear on a particular occasion, for she 


10 


m SHALLOW WATERS. 


had brought back new ideas from her boarding-school ; 
but Agnes took all directions sweetly, and would almost 
have given up the chance of an entertainment if she had 
been compelled to decide what dress she must go in. 

Was it wonderful, then, that Miss Leake loved her best, 
and parted from her most reluctantly, though it was for 
two years only? 


* CHAPTER IL 

TWO SISTERS 

Agnes decided that it was a delightful thing to be a 
bridesmaid. She liked the secondary importance which it 
gave to her, the share in the glory of the occasion without 
responsibility or thrilling experiences. She didn’t want 
to be thrilled, but only to be mildly and gently stimulated, 
to have a minor part in a great performance, and to peep 
round the principal personage at the admiring spectators. 
And Kate was so admirably fitted to be a 'principal! It 
was wonderful, beautiful, to look at her and to think of 
the plunge into life that she was about to take. 

It was pleasant also to make acquaintance with the new 
brother-in-law, and to admire the degree to which Kate 
— who, after all, knew him so very little — was at her ease 
with him. 

He was the son of an old friend who lived in Elmdale, 
and he had become known to the girls within the last 
few months while on a visit to his parents. 

The situation was to Agnes very interesting, slightly 
amusing, and altogether incredible. How could Kate call 
this stranger “Jack,” and agree to go with him to the 
other end of the world? The proceeding entertained 
her, because she was not involved in the risk of it, and 
could always come home if she didn’t like her life abroad. 
She was not much given to laughter, but she did laugh 
softly from time to time when she looked at her sister 
and said, “ Why, Kate, you can’t be married i you’re just 
Kate.” 

On account of a supposed delicacy of health, which had 


IN SHALLOW WATERS, 


11 


never, however, resulted in any serious illness, Agnes had 
been spared the hardening and informing experience of a 
boarding-school ; but Kate had enjoyed the advantages 
and disadvantages of one for more than a year. She had 
consorted with other girls of her own age, massed together 
under restrictive conditions highly incitant to every sort 
of innocent foolishness and indiscretion. Marriage was not 
to her that wonderful, incomprehensible, out-of-the-way 
thing that it seemed to Agnes. She had seen it looked for- 
ward to as promotion ; she had heard it treated as a jest. 

“ How foolish you are!” she said to Agnes ; c< every one 
gets married ; it is far odder not to do. Would you be 
an old maid ?” 

* “ Why not?” answered Agnes. “ Susie is, I suppose.” 

“But every one is not like Susie. All women have not 
her character nor position. It would be much better if 
Anna and Ellen were married ; and I know that is Susie’s 
opinion.” 

“Do you think so?” asked Agnes, in amazement. Un- 
til Kate had achieved the position of an engaged young 
woman, she had never thus expressed herself. 

“I am sure of it. All the girls at school thought it 
dreadful to be an old maid.” 

“ But you said they were silly, most of them.” 

“ So they were. But every one thinks the same. Don’t 
you notice how Robert, every time he comes from Lon- 
don, says, ‘ Let me see, Anna, how old are you ?’ That’s 
what he means, of course.” 

“ Is it indeed ? and do you think, Kate,” Agnes went 
on, with awe and wonder in her voice, “ they would have 
liked it themselves 

“ Of course they would. You don’t expect them to say 
so. How can they like, at their age, having no house of 
their own, no servant — no anything?” The last item was 
probably meant to stand for Jack. 

“But why should they? I don’t see it,” said Agnes. 
“ A house is a trouble, and so are servants.” 

“Pooh !” said Kate. 

“Then why didn’t they?” asked Agnes, apparently con- 
vinced by the last argument. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


12 


“Yes, why?” repeated Kate, twisting her engagement 
ring round her finger with a little air of superiority. 
“Well, you know, I think they might have done, if they 
had been sensible. They could not have found any one 
like Jack, of course ; that wasn’t to be expected. Why 
did Anna poke into all those foolish books ? and Ellen 
into all those cottages? Making people paupers, as Susie 
says. And then there was the curate ” — with an accent 
of supreme contempt very becoming in a young lady 
about to be married to Mr. Jack Langford — “I don’t 
wonder Susie was vexed.” 

“The curate! and was she vexed?” asked Agnes, in 
some excitement. “ You never told me about these things 
before.” 

“We were supposed not to know; and then it isn’t 
nice to talk continually about getting married — like those 
foolish girls at school.” 

Agnes understood that a license was now permitted to 
Kate which did not extend to herself, so she let the sub- 
ject drop. 

Kate was, at this period, highly satisfied with life. She 
was convinced that it contained everything necessary to 
happiness for persons who were not stupid. She herself 
was highly successful, so she considered, and it was the 
fault of other people if they were not so. Her prospects 
at the moment entirely satisfied her. She was very fond 
of Jack, and she was tired of Elmdale. She liked the 
idea of having a house of her own, and of giving orders 
to servants without considering whether they were strict- 
ly reasonable ; she was also delighted to travel. She was 
not unwilling, too, to escape from the kindly supervision 
of Susie ; and she did not consider herself appreciated in 
Elmdale. On the arrival of some one from the great 
world — for instance, Jack — her superiority had been at 
once discovered, and her proper place given to her. It 
was nice, too, to think that she might be pleasantly un- 
reasonable to other people besides servants, that she could 
speak disrespectfully to Jack, and show a little temper at 
times, and yet that he seemed to like her all the better 
for it. Also she hoped to be able to spend a little money 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


13 


foolishly, to buy dresses that Susie never would have ap- 
proved of, and to do as she liked generally. 

And then to take Agnes under matronly wing, and in- 
troduce her to the world — how pleasant that would be ! 
It was pleasant already to see the flushed wonder of that 
sweet young timidity at the easy coolness with which she 
received Jack’s devotion. To be bright, to be imperious, 
to be impertinent — as only a young married woman in 
the first glow of happy importance can venture to be — 
this was pleasant to look forward to in the future, and to 
rehearse a little in the present. It would have lost some 
of its charm had the happy comedy been without a spec- 
tator from that past in which she had lived under Susie’s 
jurisdiction; and what more desirable spectator could she 
have had than the wondering, sympathetic, admiring, sub- 
missive Agnes? 

Therefore the marriage and all its secondary results 
were satisfactory to everybody concerned. The ceremo- 
ny, when it took place, was pronounced brilliantly suc- 
cessful, and repaid Miss Leake for all the trouble and 
forethought which she had bestowed upon it. 

The young couple went away for a brief wedding jour- 
ney, and Agnes was left at home meanwhile with her el- 
der sisters. But she had no time for overmuch thought of 
her own approaching departure. Her outfit had to be 
finished and her boxes packed. Her gentle spirit was 
not insensible to the delight of the excessive attention 
which she received at this time, nor to the charms of 
those superlatively pretty dresses which were being made 
for her in a profusion justifiable only in a case of mar- 
riage or “ going abroad.” Every one said that she looked 
so well in them : the servants especially, who obtained 
glimpses when she was being “ tried on ” (making errands 
into the room on purpose), pronounced her altogether 
lovely, and quite superior to the bride. For the beauty 
of Agnes was of the sort which always appeals most to 
the imaginations of those who work with their hands, and 
who believe that the special characteristics of a lady are, 
first, to have the right to do nothing, and, secondly, to- use 
that right to the utmost. It was evident that Agnes never 


14 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


could be very useful in any way to anybody; she was 
too sensitive and helpless. Therefore she was all the 
more admirable as a pretty young lady, having a type of 
attractiveness which never could be rivalled by the most 
fascinating of house-maids or cooks. 

In a fortnight Kate came home again. She was by no 
means subdued by her change of name and position. She 
made the most of her actual emancipation from the con- 
trol of Susie, and adopted a pretty independence of man- 
ner which charmed every one by its novelty, and seemed 
to fit excellently with the fresh bridal dresses which no 
one expected to wear very well or to last very long. She 
patronized Agnes, who was still in her old bondage, while 
she herself was absolutely at liberty ; the possible sub- 
duing power of the future — namely, Jack — was only an 
eager servant still. 

In the presence of her bright hopefulness even the 
parting could not be very sad. Agnes looked about her 
with bewilderment as the last kisses were given, for she 
could not realize that she was actually leaving her old 
home and protectors. She would have broken down into 
tears and sorrow if any one had given her encouragement 
or set her the example. But no one did. Miss Leake 
had specially warned Anna and Ellen beforehand : “We 
must keep up for the sake of Agnes; poor child!” — and 
so no one wept or looked miserable. 

Robert Leake accompanied the young people to Liver- 
pool, and saw them on board. On the journey there he 
talked to his brother-in-law with matter-of-fact cheerful- 
ness of the arrangements for the voyage. Kate put in a 
word now and then. She was in high spirits, and had 
no need to feign a composure she did not feel. Agnes 
stole many a wandering glance at her. Did she really 
feel like,that? she wondered. Was it foolish to be sorry 
to go away? She tried to follow the example of the oth- 
ers, and not to imagine herself unhappy. They paid ev- 
ery attention to her comfort, and thought it best to ignore 
her probable feelings. 

She marvelled, nevertheless, that Kate should show such 
an interest in the fittings of the ship, when there would be 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


15 


plenty of time to think of these afterwards. She often 
looked wistfully at Robert, and tried to invent new fare- 
well messages to Susie, but couldn’t think of any that were 
not foolish. When the last good-bye was said, and Kate 
declared brightly, 

“I shall make Jack bring me home on a visit before 
long, and then I shall have lots to tell them at home ; of 
course I haven’t now,” Agnes could find no message but 
this to send : 

“ Tell them I said good-bye many times over, and sent 
them my love, and thought of them all the way here.” 

“How foolish of you!” cried Kate; “what’s the good 
of travelling if your mind is in Elmdale all the time ?” 

Nevertheless Robert forwarded both messages consci- 
entiously in a letter from London to “ The Stepping- 
stones;” and they were thought of sadly afterwards when 
it was known that Kate would never come back to Elm- 
dale to tell the story of her married life, and no friend or 
sister hoped to see again the gentle face of Agnes in the 
home she had regretfully left. 


CHAPTER III. 

NOT A FIRST-CLASS PASSENGER. 

Agnes was melancholy for a day and a half after leav- 
ing England; then her regrets began to yield to the cheer- 
ful interest of her surroundings, and she was able to per- 
ceive the Sb.ise of her sister’s reasoning. 

“ It’s so absurd of you, Agnes, to look miserable because 
you can’t have everything at once. Nobody can. It isn’t 
in the nature of things. If you go on at this rate you’ll 
become more unhappy the more enjoyments you know of. 
I do think you’re a very lucky girl. You know you never 
would have made up your mind to get married and go 
away yourself ; but I have taken all the trouble off your 
hands, married Jack, and brought you.” 

“ I know it’s very good of you,” said Agnes, with be- 
coming meekness, “ and of Jack too.” 


16 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“Good of Jack?” interrupted Kate, opening her eyes 
widely ; “ good of Jack to marry me ? Good gracious, 
Agnes, if you think such a fearful thing, don’t give utter- 
ance to it, at least in the presence of Jack himself. The 
nature of man is so full of conceit that he’ll perhaps come 
to believe it if you tell him it is so.” 

Jack laughed, and Agnes hastened to explain, “I don’t 
mean that. I mean good to take me with you.” 

“ What nonsense ! Jack’s very glad that I have a sister 
who’ll come. Perhaps I never would have come away 
without. You’re very glad, aren’t you, Jack?” 

“Awfully glad,” said Jack, with every appearance of 
sincerity. 

On the whole Agnes found that it was easier, as well 
as pleasanter, to be cheerful than to be melancholy. The 
weather was beautiful, and no one was ill. There were 
passengers on board whom Kate pronounced to be “ nice 
people,” and Kate herself became a little queen in the 
small society thus thrown together at hazard. Her style 
was perhaps more suitable to the young married woman 
than to the girl at home. Certainly she obtained more 
general admiration now than she had done in Elmdale. 
There Agnes, in spite of her timidity and shyness, had 
received the larger share of popular, and especially of mas- 
culine, applause. Kate Langford’s piquant ways and au- 
dacious occasional impertinences achieved, however, a suc- 
cess which had not been granted to Kate Leake. It is 
natural for a very young girl just nlarried to imagine that, 
because she has charmed her husband, she is charming to 
every one else ; and society is ready to judge her leniently 
on the occasion, and even, for a time at least, to take her 
on her own valuation. Kate’s vivacity undoubtedly eclipsed 
her sister’s sweetness in those pleasant first weeks of the 
voyage, and there were no disagreeable results, because 
Agnes was incapable of jealousy. Admiration was only 
valuable to her when it bore fruit in affectionate care and 
thoughtful kindness ; therefore she was glad when her sis- 
ter received those superfluous marks of it which only em- 
barrassed herself. Flattery was perplexing, and purely 
complimentary attentions were troublesome to her. The 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


17 


position of second to an interesting part suited her well ; 
she liked to watch with bright-eyed wonder the saucy 
airs of her sister, and to listen to her audacious chatter. 
In return Kate caressed and teased her in a pleasantly pat- 
ronizing manner, standing between her and the rest of the 
world, so that she received that tempered sunshine of so- 
ciety and gayety which she most enjoyed. 

Jack, meanwhile, watched with an indolent complacency 
the little comedy of his wife’s success. It was very natu- 
ral that “ fellows ” should admire her and, doubtless, envy 
him. At the same time, as the prize was already won, as 
he had secured his “ innings ” beyond the utmost ambition 
of the rest of the world, he was disinclined to enter the 
lists on a level with his wife’s more recent adorers ; so he 
used to smoke his pipe and watch proceedings in the most 
approved matrimonial fashion, or stroll away to have a 
chat with one of the sailors. 

“ Isn’t it an odd thing ?” he said one day, when he came 
back to his wife’s side, “there’s a fellow on board who 
came over to England with me. A capital fellow he is, 
too ; I took an awful fancy to him as we came home. 
Knows an immensity about the country and farming and 
that sort of thing. It’s quite a treat to talk to him.” 

“What’s his name, and why haven’t we seen him?” 
asked his wife. 

“His name’s Dilworth; and you’re not likely to have 
noticed him. He’s not a first-class passenger.” 

“ Oh !” said Kate, opening her eyes, “ is he very poor, 
then?” 

“ I don’t know ; I should rather think not. I fancy 
he’s been a farmer out there ; but he seems to have 
gone in for a good deal of up-country travelling in his 
time.” 

“ Is he — a gentleman?” 

“ Well, I suppose not; no, not what you would call so. 
But a very nice fellow all the same.” 

Kate showed no further curiosity concerning her hus- 
band’s new, or old, acquaintance. He did not belong to 
her world evidently. Farming and up-country travelling 
might be interesting to Jack, but did not seem to her at* 

2 


18 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


tractive topics of conversations. Nevertheless she was 
not to remain long a stranger to Mr. Dilworth. 

In the midst of the monotony of life on board ship con- 
siderable excitement was caused by the successful at- 
tempt to catch a shark, which had followed the ship for a 
couple of days, to the great uneasiness of the crew. All 
the passengers crowded to watch the event, and Kate 
among them. 

“ What a big man there is in the boat with the sailors,” 
she remarked to her husband; “and he seems the most 
active of all.” 

“ Oh, that’s Dilworth. He’s always to the front when 
anything’s going forward,” Jack answered. 

Kate watched him with more interest than she had felt 
before, and she soon had an opportunity of speaking to 
him. 

The dead shark was hauled on deck, and the ladies 
crowded round to look and shudder. Henry Dilworth 
stood by, answering questions and making an occasional 
remark. He seemed interested in the interest they showed, 
and inclined to enlighten their ignorance by some intelli- 
gent information. They, on the other hand, regarded the 
whole scene as a show got up for their amusement, and 
Henry Dilworth as the showman. 

Kate was, as usual, a prominent figure among the oth- 
ers, full of curiosity, and making disjointed inquiries of 
every sort ; while Agnes stood shrinking behind her, gaz- 
ing in turn at the fish and its captor, as if she regarded 
them equally as wonders. Henry Dilworth looked down 
on the shark, his hands in his pockets, the tallest man 
present, half a head taller than Jack, who was nevertheless 
a fine, well-built young fellow. 

“He’s an ugly beast,” he remarked, giving the shark a 
slight touch with his foot; “one of the nastiest there is. 
He’s an enemy no man can have a fellow-feeling for. 
Yet he can’t help it, poor creature! How’s he to live 
else?” 

Kate listened, glancing at him with a kind of imper- 
sonal observation which did not commit her to any recog- 
nition; then she looked at her husband, shrugged her 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 19 

pretty shoulders, and remarked, just as if he had been 
speaking last, “ He’d far better die ; why should he live? 
1 Je tien vois pas la riecessite ,’ as that Frenchman said, you 
know.” 

Henry Dilworth’s eyes fell upon her; if he was a per- 
sonality whom she declined to recognize, she was a phe- 
nomenon he did not understand. She belonged to a phase 
of life which he had never cared to study. Nevertheless 
there was something in her deliberate way of watching 
and listening to him, only to address a reply to some one 
else, which made a decided impression upon him. He was 
too indifferent to feel hurt; but he seemed to have re- 
ceived his dismissal, therefore he gave that one silent 
glance and walked away. 

Jack was not quite so pleased with his wife’s vivacity 
as usual. 

“Why did you do that, Kate?” he asked. 

“ I ?” she said, lifting her eyebrows. “ I did nothing.” 

“ It was a very impressive sort of nothing. Why did 
you speak French, for one thing? Dilworth doesn’t un- 
derstand it, of course. I don’t think you were quite polite 
to him. He’s not a showman, you know.” 

“ Who said he was, you cross creature? I wouldn’t be 
rude , of course, to any one; but why should I be polite to 
that sort of man? He doesn’t expect it.” 

“ For your own satisfaction, I should think.” 

“Well, I will in future,” Kate answered, taking her re- 
buke gayly, “ as he seems to be such a friend of yours ; 
and all the more as he’s a very handsome man of his kind, 
which you never mentioned to us.” 

“ Do you call him handsome ?” Agnes asked. “He’s so 
very big !” 

“ Little simpleton,” Kate retorted, pinching her sister’s 
cheek. “You think because you’re small yourself that 
nobody who’s big can be good-looking. Now, I call this 
man — what’s his name? Dilworth?— this Mr. Dilworth, sim- 
ply splendid. You do see that type sometimes among 
common men.” 

“I shouldn’t call him exactly a common man,” Jack 
protested, for he had taken a greater liking to his rough 


20 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


friend than to his wife’s polite admirers. “ I should say 
that on the whole he’s very uncommon.” 

“It’s much the same thing,” Kate declared, “common 
or uncommon. He’s not usual ; he’s not what we’ve all 
been taught to be from our earliest years upward.” 

“If you mean that he can’t speak foreign tongues,” 
Jack began, and his wife laughingly put in the exclama- 
tion — “ Oh, how spiteful you are ! I would never have 
married you if I had known it.” 

“You are probably right,” he went on, gravely. “ But 
I call his manners really good — not of the drawing-room 
sort, of course.” 

“Hardly,” Kate answered, dryly. “ I wonder what Su- 
sie would say, for example, if you invited him to dinner?” 


CHAPTER IV. 

HENRY DILWORTH’S PAST. 

Kate was never willing to acknowledge herself in the 
wrong, even to Jack, whose judgment had been proved 
so superior to that of the rest of the world by his choice 
of a wife. She never yielded a battle, but she changed 
her ground as soon as the contest was over, when she 
thought that her movements were unobserved. She was 
too fond of Jack, and too anxious that he should think 
all she did admirable, not to mould her actions uncon- 
sciously to his opinions, however she might verbally op- 
pose them. 

Therefore, on the next occasion that she met Mr. Dil- 
worth she was very gracious to him, a little too much so 
for perfect politeness, perhaps (the politeness in which 
there is no kind of condescension), but her husband was 
easily pleased and did not detect the shade too much in 
her manner ; while the meaning of it altogether escaped 
Henry Dilworth himself, in his social ignorance and in- 
difference. 

He was a man who had never visited in that world to 
which Kate belonged. His life had been full of work, 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


21 


and his mind was full of simple ambitions. He was a 
working-man of a class not uncommon in our time, for 
his ideas and chosen pursuits were on a level with those 
of highly educated men, and yet he made no effort and 
had no desire to escape from the sphere to which he nat- 
urally belonged. His interest in the objects of his pur- 
suit was intense and simple, not secondary to any desire 
for fame or longing for social success ; he pursued knowl- 
edge (the knowledge to which he was attracted) for its 
own sake, and not as a stepping-stone to personal advan- 
tage. Therefore, if he missed many opportunities of gain, 
he escaped many chances of slight : his simplicity and 
single-mindedness made his happiness, and had, so far, in- 
sured his success. A mind at ease # to follow the higher 
objects of ambition works more powerfully than a mind 
fretted by lesser aims and conscious of personal humilia- 
tions. He was unencumbered by family ties, physically 
strong, mentally quiet. It was not, therefore, wonderful 
that in his battle with the world he had so far had the 
best of it. He had emigrated early, had undergone a pe- 
riod of hard work and bitter privation in the mere effort 
to earn a living, but had found himself before he was 
thirty years old a successful and, comparatively speak- 
ing, a free man. 

His occupations had afforded him much opportunity 
for the study of natural history; he had read largely on 
this subject and on that of travel and geographical discov- 
ery. With comparative leisure at his disposal he turned 
his energies into the direction' of exploration of unknown 
tracts of country, and observation of the animal kingdom. 

There had been one break in the loneliness of his life, 
when he married a pleasant country girl — a farmer’s 
daughter — whose healthy industry and cheerful temper 
were her principal attractions. He had not attempted to 
introduce her to his special pursuits ; he had never de- 
manded sympathy with regard to these, nor desired ad- 
miration for his achievements. And his wife had con- 
sidered it a very harmless weakness on his part that he 
should make journeys up country from time to time to 
discover the source of a stream, or some other useless 


22 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


phenomenon — so long as he did not neglect his work and 
showed himself capable and industrious in the manage- 
ment of it. Also the books which he pored over in the 
evening, making notes of his own on the margin, attract- 
ed but little of her attention or curiosity. She did not 
know, probably, how expensive they were, and if she had 
done so would not have protested against this one feat- 
ure of extravagance in the conduct of a man so thrifty 
and self-denying as her husband. Poring over books and 
making futile journeys were regarded as her husband’s 
harmless hobbies. Sometimes, indeed, the journeys were 
difficult and dangerous enough, and Henry Dilworth came 
back from them gaunt, thin, and worn out. She nursed 
him back to strength on these occasions, and reproved 
him a little. 

“ Isn’t there work enough on the farm, lad, that thou 
mun knock theeself up for what’s good for naught when 
it’s done?” she would ask him. 

But a day or two of rest always put him right again, 
and he never swerved in this pursuit of the knowledge 
he loved best. 

After three years of married life his wife was taken 
from him by one of those swift illnesses which make sud- 
den tragedies in commonplace lives. After her death 
Henry Dilworth formed no new domestic ties. She had 
given him no children, and the fact that he had once been 
married seemed to have disposed of that sort of expe- 
rience forever for him, and to have left him more fixedly 
lonely than if he had been still a bachelor. He grieved 
over the loss of her who had been a kind and pleasant 
companion ; but his healthy and active nature — unculti- 
vated in habits of introspection, in the nursing and cher- 
ishing of grief by observation, contemplation, and analy- 
sis — received no permanent shock from this trouble ; the 
wound healed, and he became cheerful as before. Per- 
haps he was a little more helpful to others afterwards, 
and at the same time a little more unreserved in his de- 
votion to his favorite pursuits, as a man could afford to 
be who held his life, as it were, in his own hands, and in- 
volved no other creature in his failure or success. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


23 


He was at this time over, forty years of age and a pros- 
perous man. He had command of more money than he 
cared to spend on himself, for he had never altered his 
simple habits nor indulged in personal luxuries. He was, 
therefore, free to dispense money largely in certain di- 
rections and on special occasions ; and his social position 
was somewhat a mystery to his fellow-passengers. He 
did not travel first-class ; his clothes were rough though 
good ; yet he had books in his possession which it would 
have emptied a poor man’s pocket to purchase ; and when 
a charitable subscription was got up on behalf of the wid- 
ow of a sailor, killed by a fall from the mast-head, Henry 
Dil worth gave three times as much as any one else on 
board. 

“ Is he rich, do you think, or is he poor ? I can’t make 
him out,” said Kate to her husband. 

“ Rich, I should say, for a man with his habits,” her 
husband replied ; “ poor, probably, if he had the good- 
fortune to marry a wife like you.” 

“But why doesn’t he change his habits?” said Kate; 
“ travel first-class and get other clothes ?” 

“ I suppose he doesn’t care to.” 

“ Oh, but every one must care to be comfortable and 
— and nice” 

“ Perhaps he cares for other things more,” suggested 
Jack ; “and if he’s to take any more of these journeys I 
heard him telling you about, it’s as well that he shouldn’t 
learn to feel more comfortable on a feather-bed than on 
the hard ground.” 

“But why does he take those journeys? I don’t under- 
stand ; I never heard of him. He doesn’t write or do 
anything of that sort.” 

“He wants to find out for himself, I suppose.” 

“For himself? What’s the use, if no one hears of it?” 
protested Kate ; for in those days Mr. Smiles had not 
made it fashionable to admire scientific cobblers and geo- 
logical bakers, as we have all learned to do since. 

Kate found Mr. Dilworth very pleasant, however, though 
he was so incomprehensible, not to say impossible. She 
supposed that there was some explanation of his proceed' 


24 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


ings not revealed to her ; that some one paid him for the 
journeys, for instance. He was so strong, helpful, and 
pleasant that he became gradually known as a useful man 
to every one on board. He was never obtrusive, because 
he had no object in making acquaintance with any one 
who did not desire it ; but he was a person from whom it 
was easy and pleasant to obtain assistance. The captain 
and sailors looked upon him with as much favor as the 
passengers, as a man very slow to offer help, and very 
safe to rely upon for it when it was really needed. 

He was also very pleasant to talk to, though he knew 
nothing of conversation as an art. His experiences had 
been various and interesting ; he discoursed upon them 
freely when encouraged to do so ; he found it as natural 
to give information as to seek it or receive it ; but always 
for the primary reason that information is valuable and 
interesting, not for the secondary one of enhancing his 
own importance, or flattering that of others. 

He looked younger than his forty-two years. The ab- 
sence of mental worry and the enjoyment of congenial 
pursuits had preserved his fresh and healthy appearance, 
in spite of hardships voluntarily or involuntarily under- 
gone in the past. The expression of quiet power, of rest- 
ful capacity in his face made it a pleasant one to look at, 
for any one understanding it ; and he had the gentleness 
of manner which is a natural accompaniment of strength 
and simplicity. Of consciously acquired polish he had 
none ; his manners were only good in the sense that they 
were never bad ; the natural good taste which frequently 
accompanies a mind of a high order had freed him, with- 
out conscious effort, from any disagreeable habit of his 
class. The small laws of etiquette which society has 
found it necessary to impose on itself for its own well- 
being were not, indeed, within his cognizance, and he 
would not have done any of the right things in a draw- 
ing-room on a festive occasion. Happily no one had ever 
seen him in a drawing-room in the past, and he did not 
seem likely to enter one in the future. He was on his 
way back to the rough dwelling which stood to him for a 
home, where he would transact business with a far-seeing 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


25 


and home-keeping “ partner,” who was glad to carry out 
the schemes set in motion by Henry Dilworth before ; 
and then he would once more go “ up country ” to satisfy 
his mind about a lost river, which he was determined to 
find out and understand. 

Meanwhile he took the varieties of intercourse on board 
ship as he took all other experiences, easily, without un- 
necessary forethought or reflection. 

When Kate chose to amuse herself by his conversation, 
he was ready to be amusing, though he did not always 
see why she laughed at experiences not in themselves ri- 
diculous. She made a favorable report of his intelligence 
to her husband. 

“ Such an interesting man your friend Mr. Dilworth is ! 
Those common — I mean those uncommon — men often are. 
There was a boatman at Keswick who knew the oddest 
things — about eagles and — and some other sort of bird — 
I forget what.” 

Agnes attached even less personality than her sister to 
this new acquaintance of theirs. He was to her purely a 
phenomenon of the moment, and of the life they were 
then leading on board ship. He was like the mast, or the 
sails, or the sailors themselves in their characteristic cos- 
tumes, whom she knew, indeed, to be men with private 
existences, but never thought of as such. They were all 
features of the scene, patches of color on a moving back- 
ground. The animate and inanimate objects of this ocean 
transit held a more confused position in her mind than 
she was at all aware of. 

Possibly, if she had shown a more personal interest in 
their fellow-traveller, Kate would have felt it her duty to 
be on less friendly terms with him. She did, indeed, keep 
a measure of distance which he was not aware of. She 
never spoke of her own home, of her own people, and he 
never made reference to his. His private life, his rela^ 
tives, his companions, were facts which she chose to be 
ignorant of ; it was only his “ adventures ” which inter- 
ested her, as she might have been interested in the yarn 
of a sailor. To Agnes they were little more than fairy- 
tales or stories from “ books,” which need have no con- 


26 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


nection with reality. Experiences of hunger and thirst, 
of solitude in the desert, of hardship, fatigue, and priva- 
tion, these could never be, she thought, realities to her ; 
they could never be actual factors in her life, any more 
than the giants of fable. Only one of Henry Dilworth’s 
stories touched her with a sense of reality, and this filled 
her with shuddering disgust. It was the history of the 
loss of a favorite dog, and was told in connection with 
the death of the shark. The noble animal had saved his 
master’s life at the cost of its own by plunging into the 
water when he was swimming, on another occasion, to 
escape a shark ; the shark had seized the dog, and the 
man had reached the land. 

“ I shall never forget it,” he said. “ I see it all over 
again when I look at the water on a calm day — the poor 
fellow being dragged under, and the look in his eyes as he 
went down. And I could do nothing — nothing, except 
make his sacrifice useless by becoming one myself. It is 
a painful recollection. It is not pleasant to think of hav- 
ing cost so much to any creature that cared for one like 
that.” 

“ Why did you tell us such a story?” said Agnes, with 
a shiver. “I would rather not have known it.” 

He looked at her with surprise, for she seldom spoke to 
him. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said ; “ I didn’t think of that.” 

“I have seen a shark, and I can imagine how it was,” 
she went on ; “ I would rather not have known it. I might 
fall overboard myself, or Kate, and then — I think you 
should not have told us,” she said, with decision. 

This outbreak of feeling perplexed Henry Dilworth 
somewhat. Was it selfishness or sympathy? He put it 
down to sympathy, as the pleasantest solution of the 
enigma. 

Afterwards Agnes spoke of the incident to her brother- 
in-law. 

“I don’t think it was nice of your friend to tell us such 
a horrid tale,” she said. “ I don’t like hearing of dread- 
ful things.” 

“ But you read of them in the papers.” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


27 


“It’s different in print. I don’t want to hear of them 
happening to people I talk to. Susie never would allow 
it.” 

“Allow the things to happen to the people, do you 
mean, or you to talk to them afterwards ?” he inquired. 

“You know what I mean — allow us to know, to be 
told. She sent away one nurse who had a brother 
drowned.” 

“How very inconsiderate of the nurse. Come, Agnes, 
don’t take it so seriously. We are grown up, after all.” 

“ I don’t know that Agnes is grown up,” said Kate, 
pinching her sister’s cheek according to habit, “ and I 
don’t know that I want her to be yet awhile. Why 
should she ?” 

“For her own convenience,” suggested the practical 
Jack. 

“ Oh, as to that, I’m grown up enough for two or three, 
or any number, and you’re a greedy Jack, an ill-regulated, 
unsatisfactory Jack, if you want there to be more than 
one of me.” 

“There couldn’t,” said Jack; “you’re a unique pro- 
duction. The world would have to start from the begin- 
ning, and go through everything again to evolve another 
like you; and what beats everything is, that I should be 
the lucky fellow it’s all been done for.” 

This audacious compliment ended the discussion. 


CHAPTER V. 

A STORMY PRESENT. 

Sunshine and pleasant breezes did not last forever, not 
even to the end of the voyage. As the ship sailed south- 
ward the weather became cold, and stormy winds arose. 
Days without sunshine and full of rain followed one an- 
other without break. Most of the passengers suffered 
from sea-sickness ; even the light-hearted Kate had to 
take to her berth, and there bemoan the change of cir- 
cumstances. She said frankly she didn’t like the bad 


28 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


weather, couldn’t endure being ill, and considered that 
the voyage had lasted long enough. She seemed to ex- 
pect that Jack should bring it to an abrupt conclusion for 
her convenience, in some fashion not specified. 

Agnes escaped the prevailing malady of sea - sickness, 
but she was very much frightened by the gale. 

Bereft of her sister’s company, she did not often vent- 
ure on deck ; when she did so, it was to look timidly at 
the stormy sky and the darkly-tossing waters, over which 
the ship was driving along in melancholy fashion. Soli- 
tude in such a scene filled her with vague alarms; and to 
be alone with Jack was not altogether pleasant. She felt 
that she was not clever enough for his society, and that 
he might “ tease ” her. 

The gayety of the life on board was over for every one; 
the pleasant evenings on deck were abolished; the pretty 
dresses in which Kate had looked so charming and Agnes 
so lovely were put away in favor of warmer travelling 
costumes ; and the water-proof cloaks provided by Miss 
Leake’s carefulness were accepted as the only possible 
out -door toilet for her sisters. Among other pleasant 
things which the rough weather brought to an abrupt 
end were the talks on deck with Henry Dilworth. 

One afternoon, after a night more stormy than usual, 
Agnes made her way up into the open air. The noises 
of the gale had frightened her, the terrible tossing about 
in the darkness had been full of horror to her: she had 
feared at every plunge that the ship would sink to rise no 
more; and now she felt a longing to look at the sky and 
the water, and the world outside the ship, before the sun 
went down upon it once again. 

“ Perhaps I shall see land somewhere,” she said to her- 
self, for she did not think of applying geography, any 
more than other school lessons, to real life ; “ we must 
surely be getting near some country.” 

She fancied that Jack was on deck, and that he would 
join her as soon as she appeared there; but the only thing 
that met her at the top of the steps was a wild gust of 
wind, which wrenched her hat from her head, and sent it 
careering over the sea. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


29 


She looked around for help, but Jack was not there; 
the one person close at hand was Henry Dilworth. He 
seemed to have the run of the vessel now, having made 
himself too generally useful to be considered in the way 
anywhere. He came forward, and put out his hand to 
help Agnes. 

“It is rough weather for you up here,” he said, “and 
I’m afraid you won’t see your hat again.” 

“ That does not matter,” she answered, clinging to the 
rail, and looking around her in bewilderment. “ I ought 
not to have put it on. Oh, how windy it is! I thought my 
brother-in-law was here. My sister was not well enough 
to come up with me, and I wanted some fresh air. But 
perhaps I had better go down again. It doesn’t seem 
safe.” 

“ Oh, it’s safe enough. Give me your hand, and I’ll put 
you where you won’t feel the wind so much. That’s bet- 
ter, isn’t it ? It would be a pity to go down again.” 

“You are very kind. Yes, it’s better here. But oh, 
how rough the water is !” She turned her sweet face to 
him as she spoke, and looked like a flower beaten and 
driven by the storm. 

She had drawn the hood of her water-proof over her 
head, and her eyes looked out like a bit of lost summer 
sky from under the dark folds. Her sweet little mouth 
drooped wofully at the corners, and the soft outlines of 
her cheeks, the childlike dimple of her chin, were brought 
into full relief by her sombre dress and the wild scene 
around her. 

“Is it very dangerous, do you think?” she asked, look- 
ing at him wistfully. 

“Not at all,” he answered, cheerfully, “as things are 
now. Ships are at sea in all sorts of weather, and come 
home safely.” 

“I suppose they do,” she answered, with a sigh, “but 
not all of them. You have been a great deal to sea, have 
you not ? VYere you ever in a wreck ?” 

“ Three times.” 

“ Oh !” she answered, in a little tone of horror ; “ was 
anybody drowned ?” 


30 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ Not the first time.” 

“ And the second ?” 

“ Only one man.” 

“ Then people are not always drowned when there is a 
shipwreck ? But here I think we should all be. There is 
no land anywhere.” 

“ There are the boats.” 

“ Oh, the boats ! On this dreadful water ! Can you 
swim ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“That must make you feel safer; but even that would 
be no use; there is nowhere to swim to here.” 

“ Why should you think of such things?” 

“I can’t help it. In the night when I am alone, and 
hear the water, and the dreadful noise as if the ship must 
come to pieces, I cannot sleep. I am not used to being 
alone: there was always Kate until she got married. Last 
night she was good and came to me; I was so dreadfully 
frightened. I couldn’t help crying. That’s so foolish, 
isn’t it?” she appealed to him. “ Susie would not like it.” 

“ I can’t tell, I’m sure,” answered Henry Dilworth; “if 
you can’t help it, I suppose it can’t be helped.” 

“ It is almost as bad every night,” Agnes went on, “ and 
Kate cannot always come. In the daytime she even laughs 
at me for being afraid; so does Jack. It is dreadful to 
be afraid; you do not know how dreadful !” she added, in 
a low tone. 

“Poor child!” he said, sympathetically, forgetting that 
she was not a child after all. 

“ You are never afraid, I suppose?” she asked, with wist- 
ful wonder. 

“Not in that way. It makes me more sorry for you. 
I wish I could help you.” 

“ I suppose that no one can,” she answered, with another 
sigh. “ I look at that water, that dreadful water, and I 
think what it must be to drown. I seem to feel the waves 
taking hold of me, and then I wish that I had never come 
away. I am not brave, like Kate.” 

She ended with a ring of distress in her voice, and 
Henry Dilworth looked at her and tried to understand 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


31 


her trouble; for he was touched by her childish confi- 
dence and aj^peal to him. 

“ I don’t like to think that you mind it so much,” he 
answered. “Have you nothing you believe in that will 
make you not care, so that you could leave it all to hap- 
pen as it should do and must, without being afraid be- 
forehand?” 

She looked at him wonderingly. 

“I don’t know. I suppose you mean — religion. I 
ought to have that. Susie always took care that we were 
taught properly. And she said we could be good with- 
out going to church so very much. I mean on week- 
days. Of course we always went on Sundays. But those 
things seem so far away — not real. We have to think of 
them, and we see these. This water is so near : even if 
I shut my eyes I hear it. And the wind feels so strong, 
and is so loud and rough. Have you anything to think 
of that helps you ?” 

“ I don’t need help so much in that way. I have to be 
up and doing when things go wrong, as a rule, and there 
is a satisfaction in that. When there is nothing to be 
done I don’t feel the use of being anxious. I like to 
watch and see how it’s managed by the power that’s got 
hold of it and won’t let me touch it. There’s a pleasure 
sometimes in feeling so small and seeing how big other 
things are. But then I have no one to be afraid for ex- 
cept myself — and what’s the life of a man, after all, in a 
world like this ?” he said, putting out his hand to indi- 
cate the tossing sea and the stormy sky which made all 
the visible universe. 

“You are so strong every way,” Agnes answered, look- 
ing at him with wonder, envy, and perhaps admiration. 
“ I am not like that. I never can do anything when 
things go wrong. People have always taken care of me, 
and that makes me wonder if they can go on doing it 
if they will be able, or if they will remember, when any 
real danger comes.” 

“You will feel so, naturally,” he replied, thoughtfully ; 
“ it isn’t pleasant to have to rely on others ; and then in 
real danger, as you say, what can others do? You ought 


32 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


to have something to believe in better than just the help 
of your friends. A man feels the need of that sometimes, 
and what must a woman do ? Did you ever hear of Sir 
Humphrey Gilbert?” 

“ I don’t think so,” said Agnes, doubtfully. 

“ I was only thinking of something he said to encour- 
age his men in danger: ‘We are as near heaven by sea 
as by land.' Now if you could feel something like that,” 
Ilenry Dil worth suggested, doubtfully. But the doubt 
was in his own power of expressing the idea correctly, 
and not in the efficacy of the idea itself. His theological 
views were by no means orthodox, nor perhaps reason- 
able. It never entered into his head for a moment to 
think that Agnes might not be “fit for” heaven, that pos- 
sibly the gates might be closed against her. A sugges- 
tion that he himself had a better chance of getting there 
would have been dismissed by him as out of the question. 
Her helplessness seemed to him a sufficient reason for an 
open door into the better land. He looked upon heaven 
as a haven for the weak rather than a reward for the 
righteous. He did not go so far as to make it into that 
mere refuge for the destitute and paradise for the inca- 
pable into which it is transformed in the minds of some 
persons ; but he felt, without reasoning about it, that as 
all women, children, and helpless persons are put into the 
safest and most comfortable places in this world by the 
men who belong to them, naturally in the world to come 
they would have the preference also. If he had been 
told that after death he might be required to wait at the 
eternal gates, to see if room would be left for him after 
all the women and children had gone in, his sense of jus- 
tice would hardly have revolted. For the heaven he had 
heard of was surely a place fitter for the residence of 
sweet women and innocent children than of such strong 
men as himself. * It would be quite according to the fixed 
order of things that something should be found for him 
to do outside, as it always had been found for him in 
this world, while others took the comfortable places and 
seemed at home there. In the few sermons to which he 
had listened no mention had been made of that heaven 


IN SHALLOW WATEKS. 


33 


conceived by Mrs. Browning as being but a higher work 
to a surer issue ; and his imagination had never busied 
itself in working out theological details for himself. He 
accepted, therefore, the theories generally propounded on 
the subject without much analyzing, and was content, on 
his own behalf, to wait for orders in death as in life. 
The next thing that evidently wanted doing constituted 
the order which he considered himself to have received. 
When there was nothing to be done he could be happy in 
idleness ; and when things got beyond any doing of his, 
he had a way of standing in silence, mentally cap in hand, 
as if he watched the actions of a superior being whose 
ultimate designs were not confided to him. There was, 
therefore, nothing cynical in his belief that heaven was 
ready for Agnes at any moment when earth rejected her, 
and whatever life of frivolity she might have led hith- 
erto. 

His effort to comfort her succeeded beyond his hopes. 

“ I remember that,” she said, her face brightening, “ it 
is Longfellow ; only I had forgotten the man’s name — 

“ ‘He sat upon the deck, 

The book was in his hand ; 

“ Do not fear ! Heaven is as near,” 

He said, “ by water as by land ?” ’ ” 

And she smiled with pleasure at this proof of her own 
knowledge of literature. “ I shall try to think of it now 
when I am frightened. Do you feel like that — like Sir 
Humphrey Gilbert?” 

“ I haven’t often felt afraid at sea. Things happen 
quickly there, and there is not so much time for think- 
ing. Besides, there are many people about, as a rule, 
and there’s something to be done for them, or for your- 
self.” 

“ And when have you felt afraid ?” Agnes asked, with 
interest. 

“Well, I don’t think it’s ever been just like what you 
seem to feel. It hasn’t been downright unpleasant, only 
strange. I felt it the most when I’ve been alone in some 
desert place, and perhaps walked till I thought I could 
walk no farther, but must lie down and die.” 

3 - 


34 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ Oh, how dreadful !” breathed Agnes, as if for the first 
time realizing that his sufferings had been personal, and 
not part of an imaginative story. 

a Other men have been in the same sort of thing, and 
had to go through with it, too, as I never had,” he an- 
swered. “But when you’re alone like that, and quite 
alone, altogether beyond helping yourself ; when you 
know you must stay where you lie down, and no one care 
to bury you ; when there’s not a creature near to bring 
you a morsel of food or a cup of water, and no one will, 
perhaps, ever know how you came to die, or where — that 
makes you begin to think, not exactly of heaven, but of 
God. The world’s empty ; you look up thinking, perhaps, 
He sees, and you can give up your commission into His 
hand, as it might be. I’ve felt something like that at 
times.” 

“ Ah, you are so different !” said Agnes, in a low, awe- 
struck voice. “ I like to think of heaven, but I am afraid 
of God.” 

“ But heaven is, I suppose, only a little bit of God,” 
suggested Henry Dilworth. 

“ I am afraid of the rest. I mean — I mean,” she said, 
hesitating and flushing, “I don’t want to say anything 
wrong. But it seems so strong, doesn’t it ? and so cruel — 
the rest of it, all except heaven ? They say even that 
Death is an angel. But how dreadful to have angels like 
that ! Even Longfellow is dreadful sometimes, though he 
tries to make things sound pleasant. Do you know the 
next verse ? — 

“ ‘In the first watch of the night, 

Without a signal’s sound, 

Out of the sea mysteriously 
The fleet of Death rose all around.’ ” 

She looked round her at the dark water as she spoke, and 
shivered with apprehension. 

“That’s only a poetical way of putting it,” said her 
companion. 

“ Yes. It’s pretty to read on shore, but not here, at sea. 
No, I don’t like to think of death or of God. But I will 
think about heaven as much as ever I can. Thank you 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


35 


for helping me. The others are not so kind — about this, 
I mean. They don’t understand.” 

For the first time she put out her hand to shake his, as 
she said good-bye, and some instinct of reverential com- 
passion made him raise his hat. 

“I shall say that verse over and over to myself when I 
am feeling frightened,” she said. 

And she went away comforted by her little formula 
against terror, as is the nun when she tells her beads, or 
the savage when he propitiates his hideous little idol. 
Her primitive longing for personal safety was wrapped 
about by mystic idealism, and she was as profoundly ig- 
norant as the rest of her kind of the narrow selfishness of 
her little bit of religion. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS. 

The next night, and the next night again, the storm 
raged with increased violence. On the second of these 
two nights no one on the vessel slept, but on the after- 
noon of the day following there was a lull in the wind 
and a break in the clouds, through which the sun ap- 
peared shining dimly on a watery world, as if to see what 
ruin had been wrought in its absence. 

Such of the passengers as were able to leave their 
berths went on deck, that they might make the most of 
the little brightness, and cheer themselves with the pros- 
pect of finer weather. 

Kate was among these ; her pretty color had fled with 
her charming vivacity, and an expression of impatient dis- 
gust was on her features. 

“ What a passage !” she said, shrugging her shoulders 
as she looked at the wave-masses rising and falling under 
the chilly light. “ Did any one ever have a worse ?” 

“It hasn’t lasted all the time, you know,” Jack said, 
apologetically. “We had some good weather at the be- 
ginning.” 


36 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ I’ve almost forgotten, it’s so long since,” she retorted, 
with a touch of her usual sauciness. “ Oh, Mr. Dilworth, 
haven’t we had a dreadful time ?” 

“ Rather bad for ladies,” Henry Dilworth replied. “ I’m 
glad to see you better, however.” 

“ I’m obliged to be better, in spite of the weather, for 
it won’t give me any help towards it. Last night I think 
I was frightened out of my sickness. I never closed my 
eyes a minute ; I suppose nobody did. You may imag- 
ine what my sister felt.” 

“ I wasn’t so very much afraid,” Agnes said, softly. 
Then, when Mr. Dilworth came and stood next to her, she 
continued in the same low tone, “ I said that verse over 
many times when the ship was tossing so. I think it 
helped me a little.” 

“ What is the child talking about ?” Kate asked, with 
a little stare of astonishment. 

“ A verse in Longfellow,” Agnes answered, “ that Mr. 
Dilworth reminded me of.” 

“ Oh, Longfellow,” Kate replied, opening her eyes wider 
still. “ I shouldn’t have supposed Mr. Dilworth would 
read Longfellow.” 

There was something of the fine lady’s polite insolence 
in her way of saying it, but this passed unperceived by 
her sister and Mr. Dilworth. It was replied to by her 
husband. 

“Nor I,” he said, dryly; “it’s more a school-girl’s style 
of poetry.” 

“ What do you mean by that ?” she asked, softening at 
once, as she always did, when her husband came into any 
discussion ; and thereupon the two fell into conversation 
together, leaving Agnes and Mr. Dilworth to talk undis- 
turbed. 

“ I’m glad the storm’s over,” Agnes said. “ It is so ter- 
rible when it lasts so long ! It is over, isn’t it ?” she ask- 
ed, appealingly. 

“ The wind has certainly fallen to-day,” he answered, 
cheerfully. 

“ And it’s pleasant to see a little land, although it is 
land of such a miserable sort,” she continued, her eyes 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


37 


turning to some desolate rocks which they were approach- 
ing. 

“ I don’t know about that,” Henry Dilworth said ; 
“ we’ve given up the custom of hugging the shore. Next 
to a good harbor the open sea’s best in a storm.” 

“ But if you are wrecked ?” 

“You are not so likely to be wrecked.” 

“ But if you are 


“ Well, if you are, of course it’s good to have some sol- 
id ground to get on.” 

“ That’s what I think. So that I like to look at those 
ugly islands. Aren’t they ugly? And the sea-birds 
swarm over them so. I suppose nothing else lives there ? 
It would be too dreadful. It makes me think of my own 
home to see land again. It is so beautiful at home where 
I live. There are such woods and rivers ! The hill rises 
up behind the house. The road runs in front, and then 
there’s the river with the stepping-stones across.” 

“What are you telling Mr. Dilworth?” Kate inter- 
rupted, in renewed surprise, and with evident disappro- 
bation. She was not aware of the interview which had 
established a confidential feeling of friendship between 
the two, and she did not like to hear her sister discours- 
ing of her own home to this Australian. It was “ too 
intimate.” 

“As if he cares to hear about our little village?” she said. 

Agnes blushed vividly at the reproof ; but she made a 
little effort to defend herself. 

“Perhaps it was foolish. But then I’m not clever. I 
can’t talk like you, Kate, about things I never saw.” 

“Who wants you to be clever? That’s quite another 
thing. Come away with me now. I came up for a little 
cheerfulness after being in the horrid cabin so long ; but 
I’m sure the sea looks horrid, and that land looks horrid, 
and the sun only shines enough to show distinctly how 
horrid everything is. How you can talk of Longfellow 
in such a scene passes my comprehension !” 

Agnes followed her sister meekly. She thought that 
Kate was “ cross ” through being ill, a phenomenon not 
without precedent in her experience. When the two girls 


38 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


had disappeared, Jack and Henry Dil worth remained look- 
ing silently at the rugged islets towards which they were 
driving. These were mostly mere jagged bits of rock, 
fretting the waters which broke stormily around them. 
They were treeless and desolate, the haunt of countless 
sea-birds, which disturbed the air by their cries. 

One rock alone, which the ship passed last of all, and 
some time after the ladies had gone below, was large 
enough to be called an island. It rose like a table from 
the water, with steep cliff sides and level, dreary top. 
Only in one place there seemed to be a tiny beach of 
jagged rock and broken stone, where a footing could be 
secured above the water’s surface and below the face of 
the cliff. 

“I don’t remember seeing these islands as we went,” 
Jack remarked. 

“We’ve no business to be seeing them now; but we’ve 
been driven out of our course, and are a good deal farther 
south than we ought to be. They are the Cross Islands.” 

“Not promising places for a settlement.” 

“No. A man might scrape enough together there to 
keep himself alive if need were, I suppose, but not much 
more.” 

“ I’d rather not be the one to try the experiment,” said 
Jack ; and then he went below to his wife, for it was al- 
ready getting dusk. 

Another passenger strolled up to Henry Dilworth and 
remarked, “ We’ve got the worst over at last.” 

“ H’m !” was the answer, grimly enough given, “ I can’t 
say; I’m sure. We’ve got some dirty weather before us 
yet. I shouldn’t care to have any women belonging to 
me on board.” 

This was a new sort of reflection for the solitary, inde- 
pendent man to make ; but the passenger was only inter- 
ested in its direct application. 

“ Why do you say so ? The wind’s fallen, and the ship’s 
right and tight, in spite of all she’s come through. You’re 
not used to the sea, perhaps.” 

“The land is more in my way, certainly; but I’ve seen 
a thing or two on ‘ the great deep ’ in my time. Any 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


39 


man must, who goes backward and forward about the 
world much. What I’m thinking is that the clouds over 
there are getting into a knot, just where the wind comes 
from, and they’ll have to loose themselves somehow. 
When they begin, I expect that we’re in for it worse than 
we had it before. And I don’t much like the way the 
ship takes the water in bad weather. She’s a new ship, 
but that’s not always the best thing. A ship in good con- 
dition that’s been tried is what I like. Once or twice last 
night I thought she was going to behave in an ugly fash- 
ion. A ship in such a storm as that should be like a liv- 
ing thing with a hand she knows guiding her. However, 
we’ve got a good captain, and that’s in our favor.” 

Nearly all the passengers went to bed early that even- 
ing, tired out by the sleepless hours of the night before. 
Before long the wind rose again, and the storm renewed 
itself with increased violence. Most of them slept through 
the noise of it, partly out of sheer exhaustion, partly be- 
cause they were getting used to the situation and begin- 
ning, by force of habit, to fear it less. 

Henry Dilworth remained on deck. The appeal of 
Agnes had touched him deeply as a new and strange ex- 
perience, and the soft outlines of her sweet face haunted 
him now in the darkness. It was a face made for sun- 
shine and caresses ; it was out of place in the wildness of 
the storm. The fitting thing to do would have been to 
lift its owner out of the tossing ship and put her down 
safely in some warm and cosey corner of the world. But 
miles and miles of stormy sea were heaving -their hungry 
waters between her and a haven of safety ; she must take 
her chance with the rest, and go through the dangers and 
discomforts for which she seemed so little fit. 

In the darkness some hours afterwards Henry Dilworth 
found his way to the saloon, where Jack had fallen asleep 
with a book in his hand. 

- u I’m glad you’ve not gone to bed,” he remarked. 

“I was just thinking of it,” Jack said, waking and 
yawning ; “ every one else has gone long since, and is fast 
asleep by this time. How the ship tosses ! It’s worse 
than last night.” 


40 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ Mrs. Langford has gone to bed, and her sister.” 

“ At nine o’clock, They were altogether done up, poor 
things!” 

“ Don’t disturb them, then. It’s no use frightening 
them before it is necessary; let them sleep while they can. 
But I’d come on deck myself if I were you.” 

“Anything wrong?” asked Jack, wide awake on the 
instant. 

“I’m afraid there is; a good deal. We’re pretty well 
damaged by this gale already, and if it lasts I don’t see 
how the ship can stand it. It’s about as much as they 
can manage now to keep her head right and let her go 
where the wind takes her ; and this isn’t altogether a part 
of the sea where I’d choose to let the wind have the driv- 
ing of us. There are rocks on both sides of our course, I 
fancy, for a good distance now.” 

“I’ll come on deck,” Jack answered, laconically. 

On deck, in the darkness, the scene — what there was of 
it — was desolate. There was a good deal to be heard and 
felt, however. The ship plunged and struggled in the 
rough waters like a creature frantic with an effort beyond 
its strength ; and the wind-beaten ocean showed no signs 
of weakness; it sent wave after wave to the battle, each 
as strong as the last. 

“It looks a bad business if the wind doesn’t drop,” Jack 
remarked to Henry Dilworth, as they stood in the most 
sheltered place they could find. 

“A very bad business.” 

Jack lit his cigar — a matter of difficulty under the cir- 
cumstances — like a man prepared to make the best of 
things so long as he had the chance of it. 

“ Poor Kate !” he said ; “ if this sort of thing had to be, 
it’s a pity it wasn’t on my way to England instead of now.” 

“Yes,” answered- Henry Dilworth, with earnestness; 
“ it’s not the same thing when you’ve women belonging to 
you to think of. I never had — at such a time as this. If 
things come to the worst, and you have to see to your 
wife, I’ll look after her sister.” 

“You’re very good. I hope there’ll be no occasion, 
however.” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


41 


“I hope there won’t,” was the answer, and nothing 
more was said of the matter. But Henry Dilworth had 
given his word, and when occasion came he fulfilled it to 
the uttermost. 


CHAPTER VII. 

DARKNESS AND DEATH. 

Agnes had fallen asleep, utterly worn out by emotion 
and wakefulness. The rising of the storm only rocked 
her at first, it seemed, to deeper slumber ; then it crept 
into her dreams and wove strange unrealities there. The 
roaring of the waves, the groans of the ship struggling 
against an enemy too strong for it, the loud voices shout- 
ing above the storm, and the ominous crashing of timber, 
took fantastic forms of trouble in her dreams. 

She was struggling to cross the stepping-stones to her 
own home, and always when she got a couple of yards in 
any direction the water flowed over the next stone and 
forced her to turn back. She could not land on either 
side, for her approach was the signal of the rising of the 
water, which subsided behind her and surged in front of 
her. Over the flooded stepping-stones great tree-trunks 
were carried, and the rain poured ; behind her were sun- 
shine and dry stones; but as often as she fled from one to 
the other the circumstances were* reversed, and she found 
herself plunging into the flood and the storm. She could 
hear the rain and the wind rush into the trees on each 
bank as she tried to reach it. Her sister Susie, who stood 
on the road by the house, was enveloped in the tempest 
when they tried to meet, but between them the river 
flowed gently whenever they moved apart. 

At last she saw Henry Dilworth approaching on the 
other side, and he put out his hand to help her; then she 
heard the crack of an ash-tree on the brink, torn up at its 
roots by the rush of the current which swept over the 
whole face of the river, ingulfing bank and road, and felt 
herself borne away — somewhere — with a hand she could 
not grasp snatching at hers. 


42 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


She woke with a confused sense of unusual noise or si- 
lence, she did not know which; a shock, or the absence of 
a shock, had roused her suddenly. There was a creaking 
of boards and a shivering of the ship, as if it, too, stood ar- 
rested in an uncomprehended nightmare, fear; and there 
was a great noise of rushing water, the loud cries of 
voices, but beyond these things something strange in the 
position of alfairs, something new in her sensations, which 
she could not at once define. 

She could feel the shock of a great wave striking the 
ship, which seemed to quiver and shrink, like a wounded 
creature trembling under a blow it can no longer escape 
and has no strength to resist; but in spite of this there 
was an incongruous, impossible feeling of stillness; and 
then she began to realize that the ship was not tossing 
any more. 

She had no time to consider what this meant, or for any 
further thought at all, for there was a sharp knocking at 
her door, and the voice of Jack saying, “Agnes, are you 
awake ?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, starting up. 

“ Don’t be frightened, but get dressed at once, as fast 
as you can, in your warmest clothes. Never mind collars 
and such things. There’s something wrong and we must 
go on deck. I’ll come for you in five minutes.” 

Something wrong! Her first feeling was that she had 
lived all her life a^vare f>f this hour, which was dark with 
a horror beyond her nature to endure; her first instinct 
was to throw herself on the pillow and sob in passionate 
despair. She could not meet the elements raging against 
her life; let them take her as she was without calling 
upon her for any effort first. But the habit of obedience 
was strong within her; she roused herself, and with trem- 
bling fingers put on the warm travelling costume which 
she had been wearing of late. She was obedient, even 
about the collar, and hastily knotted a woollen scarf round 
her neck instead ; she was in that confusion of mind which 
makes it impossible to realize whether the time occupied 
in doing a necessary thing is long or short, and she seemed 
to be struggling through a thousand moments, in each of 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


43 


which the desire confronted her of sinking on the floor in 
a stupor of horror; but the instinct of escape and the 
habit of obedience were stronger, and she put all her clothes 
on, even to the water-proof. She was drawing the hood 
of it over her head when Jack’s voice was heard again, 
saying, 

“Are you ready? I’m taking Kate up, and then I’ll 
come for you.” 

“ I’m ready now,” she answered, and plunged at the door 
to open it; but Jack w r as already gone. When she knew 
that she was left in solitude for a little longer, a horrid 
fear came over her; she fancied that the ship would go 
down at once, and that she would be swallowed up in the 
darkness alone. To drown in the open water seemed at 
that minute a privilege. She could not bear to wait, and 
so she struggled up by herself. When her head w T as on a 
level with the deck, she noticed for the first time how 
much the vessel slanted ; the boards looked, to her excited 
imagination, like a steep hill ; some persons, dark objects 
in the darkness, appeared to be stumbling across the slope 
just below her. At that moment, while she hesitated, there 
was a great rush of water over the lower half of the ves- 
sel; it ingulfed the figures and poured down upon her, 
catching her breath and forcing her to cling to the rail 
her hand was upon. Some one caught her at the moment, 
and she heard the voice of Henry Dilworth : 

“Is that you, Miss Leake? You should have waited. 
I was coming for you.” 

“ I dared not wait. I was afraid. What is the matter? 
Where are we?” 

“ We’ve run on a rock, but I hope we shall get away all 
right. The boats are being prepared. Come with me ; 
I’ll take you to your sister. But you must do as you’re 
told.” 

The rush of water was for the moment gone. The slope 
of deck was clear, apparently there was no one on it. 

“I — I thought some people w r ere there,” Agnes said, 
wonderingly. 

“Did you? Nevermind. Come on.” 

- He spoke with authority, and lifting her actually in his 


44 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


arms, ran with her to a higher place, where J ack stood with 
Kate clinging to him. 

“ I’m off to help with the boats,” Henry Dilworth said 
to Jack Langford, as he placed her in the securest corner. 
“Stay where you are and you’re right. The ship won’t 
break to pieces for a good half-hour yet, the captain be- 
lieves ; and she won’t go down before she breaks. She’s 
too well spiked for that.” 

“You’ll tell us when to come?” 

“Yes; only keep here with the ladies. And whatever 
you do, don’t be tempted to get into the first boat ; it’s 
almost certain to be overloaded. I’ll come when it’s time 
for you to take your places.” 

“If we’ve struck a rock, can’t we be landed on it?” 
Kate asked, speaking for the first time. Her face was 
white, her features set — all the youthful vivacity gone 
from them; but she held her head erect, as if defiant of 
terror, and she clung to Jack (with whom, at least, it was 
something to die) as if she had forgotten Agnes. Jack 
put his arm round his sister-in-law, but he did not speak 
to her ; and he looked every moment from the dark scene 
about him into his wife’s white face. 

“There’s nothing to land on that the sea is not break- 
ing over.” 

“Can any boat live in this water?” Kate asked again. 

“Yes, when it’s clear of these breakers. The storm is 
subsiding; it has been doing so for the last half-hour; 
but the ship was injured before, and didn’t answer to the 
helm.” 

There was silence after that. Kate lifted her face once 
for her husband to kiss, and he said, “Poor child!” with 
indescribable compassion and compunction; but the bright- 
ness of her eye lighted up her features with a look not al- 
together pitiable. Neither of the two addressed Agnes, 
and she did not attempt to speak; her stupor of wonder 
and horror was too great. 

The violence of the tempest was certainly subsiding ; 
the water no longer beat with such continued fury against 
the wreck, but at intervals a great wave struck it and 
washed all its lower portion, as it had done when Agnes 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


45 


watched the mysterious disappearance of those figures on 
the deck. Many of the passengers were already beyond 
the need of boats ; how and when they had gone in the 
darkness and confusion, out of the way of all help, the 
great waves only knew. Others were waiting on deck, 
half dressed, wet through, and shivering with cold and 
fright. They had hurried up at the first alarm and dared 
not go down again for warmer clothing. When the first 
boat was ready, all those poor creatures were eager to 
get into it, and it was soon filled. There was plenty of 
time for the. preparation of the next boat, and it was not 
considered desirable to fill this one only with its crew and 
helpless women ; some of the men belonging to these 
women had, therefore, been encouraged to go with them, 
while a few of the women themselves were advised to 
wait for the next boat. But when the last moment came, 
and the boat was considered full, several of those who 
had been afraid to enter it, and who had elected to remain 
for the next, were terrified at the idea of remaining on 
the ship even for a few minutes longer. They passion- 
ately demanded that room should be found for them. 
One young couple, with whom the Langfords had been 
rather intimate, encouraged by the example of Jack and 
Kate, had at first resolved to wait for the second boat. 
But the wife’s courage failed her at the last moment ; she 
begged to be taken at any risk, and her husband, with 
their baby in his arms, hurried her away, throwing back a 
word of farewell to the Langfords as he went. 

Then the panic spread to another of the little group. 
A woman with four children had been brought to it by 
Henry Dil worth. She was going out to join her husband 
in Australia, and Henry Dilworth had shown her a good 
deal of kindness on the voyage ; he had told her now to 
wait until he came to take her away ; but her confidence 
in his judgment could not resist the force of the general 
example. She also hastened away with her children, and 
begged for a place in the first boat. Room was made for 
herself and the youngest child, then two others were given 
to her, in answer to her entreaties, but the eldest was not 
allowed to join her. 


46 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“It’s no use; there are too many already. He’ll be 
safer in the next boat,” was the answer. 

She stood up, in spite of all remonstrances, gesticu- 
lating wildly, while the boy sobbed forlornly on the 
deck. 

But her anguish and anxiety were soon over. The boat 
was struck by wave after wave as it cleared the ship, and 
it did not rise buoyantly on the water. The woman cow- 
ered down, frightened, among her children ; the young 
couple clasped hands, and looked into each other’s faces 
for the last time ; then there was a great cry, a tumult 
and confusion in the darkness, and the agony was over. 

Henry Dilworth had brought back the boy to the little 
group still waiting, consisting now only of the Langfords 
and Agnes. The child was still sobbing, and asking for 
his mother. 

“ Will you take care of him, Miss Leake ?” Henry Dil- 
worth said. “ He is very much frightened.” 

Agnes looked at the boy, and put out her spare hand to 
him ; that was all she was capable of doing. 

“ Where is his mother ?” asked Jack, who had been too 
far off to discern in the darkness what happened. 

“ She went in the first boat,” Henry Dilworth answered, 
briefly. 

“And what has become of it?” Jack asked, hastily. 
“ It should have a light ; I don’t see it anywhere ; and 
the people cried out. Jones and his wife were on it. I 
hope nothing has gone wrong.” 

“ What’s the use of asking ?” Henry Dilworth answered, 
as he hurried away. 

“ I suppose he will come back for us ?” Kate said, in a 
subdued voice. 

“ Yes, I suppose so.” 

“ At any rate, we have had a quarter of an hour longer 
through taking his advice. It’s a long wedding journey 
we are likely to take together, isn’t it, Jack?” 

“I don’t know, darling. There’s no reason why we 
shouldn’t get away safely.” 

“The other boat has gone down, though he would not 
tell us so ; and ours will Poor Mrs. Jones has got her 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


47 


experience over; ours is to come. Well, I don’t regret 
anything do you ?” 

As she looked at him, her eyes were shining with ex- 
citement ; they were courageous and defiant eyes, that de- 
manded the answer she asked for. 

“ My dear love, nothing but that I should have brought 
you into this danger.” 

“ But if I don’t regret it, why should you ? If I were 
not here, it would mean that I had never loved you, that 
I had not been married to you. It seems to me now, 
though I never thought so before, that I hadn’t it in 
me to be a very good wife. But now it doesn’t matter ; 
you’ll never know it, never believe it. It has been perfect 
so far. Say you regret nothing.” 

“ I regret nothing, darling, if you are satisfied.” 

Kate kissed him again, with a strange little laugh ; then 
her eye caught the shrinking figure of her sister. 

“Poor Agnes !” she said; “ with her it is all for nothing.” 

A moment afterwards Henry Dil worth appeared and 
spoke to Jack rapidly. 

“Will you take your wife? and I’ll bring her sister. 
I’ll come back for the boy after.” 

Kate and Jack moved away at once. Jack’s arm was 
round his wife, and she clung to him, looking all the while 
into his face, and not into the darkness through which he 
guided her. 

Henry Dil worth stopped to speak an encouraging word 
to the boy, telling him to remain where he was ; then he 
began to follow the two, leading Agnes carefully, for she 
was perfectly passive. Suddenly he caught her back, 
clasping her firmly with one strong arm, while he grasped 
at the nearest support with the other. 

Another great wave — one of the last in the subsiding 
storm — had struck the ship and was washing over it. 
Henry Dilworth’s movement was quick enough to save 
himself and Agnes ; the sudden dash of water caught her 
breath, and made her cling to him with tearless, panting 
sobs ; but that was all. 

In front of them the swirling mass, every drop of which 
seemed full of life and power, seethed round the figures 


48 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


of Kate and Jack ; they wavered, flung themselves to- 
gether with a passionate clasp, and went down into the 
sucking water. 

Henry Dilworth put his hand to his eyes, and tried to 
peer into the darkness. But the thing was over. There 
had been no sound, except the thunderous advent and the 
hollow retreat of the water ; and now there was nothing 
to see. The wave that had done its errand could keep its 
secret ; the tossing surface of the sea gave sign of no life 
except its own. 

“ Come now, we’ve no time to lose,” Henry Dilworth 
said, abruptly. 

But Agnes seemed too bewildered to move ; she was 
looking round her with a scared face. 

“No, no; let us stay here. Tell them to come back,” 
she said, resisting his effort to draw her away. 

For answer he lifted her into his arms, carried her to 
the vessel’s side, and put her in the boat, almost as if she 
were an inanimate creature. 

“Sit down, and keep still ; I will come to you again,” 
was all he said to her. 

She looked round with terrified eagerness. There was 
no Kate, no Jack, no face that she knew, only men with 
rugged looks, only the darkness, the water, the doomed 
ship. The position was horrible, incomprehensible. She 
covered her face with her hands, and dropped on her knee. 
Presently the boy was put beside her. 

“ Let him be with the lady,” she heard Henry Dilworth 
say. She was too frightened to understand altogether 
what it meant. 

The captain was left on the ship to attempt his escape 
in the last boat with what men remained to him. His 
officers had gone in the first rush of water when the ves- 
sel struck, or afterwards : who remembered ? who could 
tell? Some of the passengers had lost their lives in the 
same way ; some had gone down with the first boat ; only 
the boy was left, and Agnes. She was the lady still alive 
among all those who had been on board the day before, 
and she was in an open boat on a stormy sea, far away 
from inhabited land, with a child, a dozen sailors, and 
Henry Dilworth. 


PART II. 


LOVE UNREQUITED AND STRENGTH THAT 
AVAILED NOT. 


CHAPTER I. 

DRAWING NEARER. 

When day dawned a boat was tossing on the rough 
water near a desolate island, the largest of those rocks 
which the vessel had passed the evening before. Land- 
ing there was difficult, and it was necessary to wait some 
hours until the great breakers should have lessened with 
the lessening of the storm. 

Agnes had passed a miserable night, shivering with 
cold and terror. Her clothing was all wet through, and 
the rug which Henry Dilworth had thrown over her failed 
to keep her warm. The boy had fallen asleep beside her, 
but she was hardly conscious of his presence. With ev- 
ery plunge of the boat she expected to go down into the 
water and rise no more. 

It was long before she dared to look around her, and 
then it was only to see the sullen waters heaving under a 
sullen sky. No ship was to be seen, nor any other boat, 
only the barren rocks and the desolate water. Grief and 
horror rendered her speechless ; she silently rejected the 
food which Henry Dilworth offered her, and gazed w r ith a 
fascinated dread on the dreary shore they were drawing 
near. It could not be that she was to be landed here 
with all these men — alone? And Kate — where was Kate? 
She dared not ask, and only looked mutely from time to 
time into Henry Dilworth’s face, trying to see there some 
sign of hope. 

The landing on the island proved very difficult; the 
4 


50 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


men all got their half -dried clothing once more wet 
through in the rush through the surf. Henry Dilworth, 
however, found a place where Agnes and the child could 
be hauled from the boat to a rock above, and so landed 
on shore dry-shod. This was the first service he was able 
to render them. 

Afterwards all hands were busied in collecting sea- 
weeds and bits of wreck for a fire, in cooking such food 
as they had, and then in seeking out some shelter for the 
night. 

The emergency failed, however, to arouse Agnes to en- 
ergy or to action. She sat in her rain-cloak, looking anx- 
iously out to sea, and could hardly be persuaded to touch 
any food. 

When night came and she realized in what a miserable 
spot she must spend it, she broke out into passionate 
protest. 

“ Is there nothing better? Can you find me nothing 
better? I cannot sleep there.” 

She spoke almost reproachfully, and Henry Dilworth 
looked at her with troubled eyes, grieved that he could 
not comply with her demands, even when they were un- 
reasonable. 

“We will make it better for you to-morrow. At least 
it is safe ; nothing can happen to you there.” 

“How do I know?” she asked, with a shudder. “ There 
may be wild beasts.” 

“There are none. And if there were they should not 
touch you. I shall sleep a few yards away. If you call 
out I shall hear you.” 

“Why doesn’t the other boat come with Kate and Jack? 
I never knew why you brought me away without them.” 

“ Miss Leake,” he said, gently, “ whatever I have done 
or tried to do has been for your own safety. I promised 
Mr. Langford to take care of you.” 

“But where is he, and where is Kate? I have not 
dared to ask you all day. You do not mean to tell me 
they are drowned?” 

His eyes were full of compassion, and his voice of sym- 
pathy. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


51 


“ Do you not know ? Is there any need for me to tell 
you?” 

She was silent for a moment; then she spoke, almost 
angrily, “ I will not believe it. Perhaps they will come 
yet,” and so she turned and left him as if he had been to 
blame for all. 

The next morning brought a new horror ; for two bod- 
ies were washed ashore. They were those of sailors who 
had been left on the vessel, and their drifting to the isl- 
and proved that the third boat must have made good its 
departure from the ship. It had probably been upset not 
far from the refuge it was seeking. 

This incident added another terror to those already 
haunting the mind of Agnes. Death was a dreadful 
thing to her; she had never been face to face with its 
manifestation before, and now the horror of it spoiled 
even the thought of her sister Kate, and filled her with a 
dread stronger that the hope of reunion. 

“I would rather never see her again than see her like 
that” she said to Henry Dilworth. “Kate! who was so 
pretty and bright and clever ! I couldn’t bear it ; it 
would kill me to look at her. Do you think she will 
come here ?” 

“It isn’t possible,” he answered; “she was washed off 
the vessel, and that is too far away.” 

“Did you see her? Did you know, then ?” 

He glanced at her for a moment only, as if the mere 
recognition of her intense trouble would serve to increase 
it. 

“It’s a pity even to talk of it,” he said. 

“That means — that you did. And so did I; but I 
wouldn’t believe it. It was too dreadful. Now I would 
rather know. It is better than to think that it happened 
near here, and that perhaps — some day — she will come.” 

It seemed useless to combat these morbid fears ; they 
were only dulled gradually by an increasing consciousness 
of physical suffering and discomfort as the days went by 
and the situation did not change. 

Agnes did not make any effort to face the position 
bravely; she became more and more absorbed in her own 


52 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


miserable sensations, more intense in her desire to escape 
and to forget all that had happened to her, to be comfort- 
able once again and at rest. She had little sympathy to 
give to others, and no help ; it was some time before she 
even showed any grateful feeling to Henry Dilworth. 

They had been on the island for several days when a 
new misfortune happened to them. Some of the sailors 
had more than once suggested taking to the open sea in 
their boat, and trusting to the chance of meeting a passing 
ship. But Henry Dilworth had considered such a chance 
almost desperate at that time of the year; and the rough 
weather which continued for more than a week after their 
landing would have rendered such an attempt to escape 
very dangerous. He knew the misery of famine, thirst, 
and sickness in an open boat on a stormy sea; he believed 
that the inevitable exposure would kill Agnes and the 
child, even if the rest escaped. On the island they could 
at least live ; there was water, and there was the flesh of 
the sea-birds. Some vessel must at last pass and take 
them off ; the chance of meeting one on the open sea was 
hardly greater, and the chance of life was very much 
less. 

The men yielded to his arguments and agreed at least 
to delay in hope of better weather; but when a storm 
tore the boat from its fastenings in the darkness of the 
night, and they found themselves in the morning absolute 
prisoners on the island, with no longer a choice of de- 
parture, they could not forgive Henry Dilworth for the 
advice he had given to them. This was the cause of the 
first and only, quarrel which he had with the men. 

When Agnes came out of her hut that day she found 
the sailors standing together in a group looking out to 
sea with gloomy faces. Henry Dilworth was at work 
near, but the rest seemed to have withdrawn themselves 
from him, and more than one angry glance was cast in 
his direction. 

“Serves us right for taking a landsman’s word,” one 
man said, angrily. 

“ It’s as like as not he did it himself,” another muttered, 
with a scowl. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


53 


“ If I thought that !” said the first, and he finished his 
sentence with an oath. 

Agnes looked from one to another with perplexity, her 
eyes dilating and her breath coming quickly. 

“What is it?” she said, in a low voice, to Henry Dil- 
worth. 

He looked up from his work and smiled reassuringly. 

“An unlucky thing’s happened. The boat has been 
washed away in the night.” 

“ But are they angry with you ?” 

“Yes, at this minute. They are ready to be angry 
with any one. They are vexed because I advised them 
not to go off in the boat before.” 

“ But it wouldn’t have been safe to go, would it ?” 

“ They agreed that it 'wouldn’t at the time ; but men 
in their situation can’t always be reasonable ; ’tisn’t like- 
ly,” he said, dryly. 

He waited, therefore, for a return to a more amicable 
mood, and went on with his own occupation as unobtru- 
sively as possible meanwhile, neither avoiding the men 
nor seeking any intercourse with them. It would have 
been dangerous at the moment to show either fear or ir- 
ritation ; too much meekness would have been as unad- 
visable as too little temper. He knew that he was the 
chief protector of Agnes and the child ; every little com- 
fort that was possible in their position he assured to 
them. He was working now with his penknife at some 
bits of timber, trying to make them into something serv- 
iceable. The sailors had, so far, shown great good-nat- 
ure in permitting him to take-the lion’s share of the few 
materials they had at command ; they were aware that it 
was not for his own use he took possession of them and 
toiled at them so ingeniously. It would be disastrous, 
therefore, for them to take a grudge against him ; it 
would be terrible if they came to an open quarrel. 

His patience and silence seemed to produce no good 
result, however. The men were too much disheartened 
by their new calamity to apply themselves to any task, 
and their temper did not improve with hours of idleness 
and grumbling. The worst of them, deceived by Henry 


54 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Dilworth’s quiet manner, began to show a bullying 
spirit. 

It was towards evening that he separated himself from 
his companions and went up to Henry Dilworth. 

“Look here,” he said, “you stop that. You’ve helped 
yourself to enough already. We’ll not stand any more 
of it.” 

Henry Dilworth glanced at him and then at the other 
men, to see what mood they were in. They stood aloof, 
watching with doubtful but gloomy faces. 

Henry Dilworth stooped over his work again, and an- 
swered, quietly, “ What do you want it for? It’s too 
good for firewood, so long as we’ve anything else; but if 
you want it for anything useful you must have it.” 

“ What is it to you what I want it for ? You’ve played 
the master long enough. You’ll make yourself comforta- 
ble here while you watch us starve. We’ll be hanged if 
we stand it.” 

Henry Dilworth stood upright and looked at him. 

“ Have I made myself more comfortable than any one 
of you? Have I helped myself to anything you’ve not 
got ?” 

“ You’re fine at talking ; and so you were when you 
stopped us going off in the boat. You’ve stopped it for 
good and all now. But there’s more ways of dying than 
drowning, or than starving either. And if you’ve fastened 
us here to die, I’ll take care that you’re not the last of us 
to do it.” 

He raised his voice as he spoke. The men drew a little 
nearer with a murmer of excitement, and Agnes, who had 
gone into her hut again, was attracted by the sound, and 
came out with a frightened look. 

Henry Dilworth spoke in a clear voice, that all the men 
might hear him. 

“ My chances of life are the same as yours ; I could do 
nothing to harm you without harming myself.” 

“Nay, but they’re not. You’re a landsman, and your 
best chance is on land. We’re sailors, and our best chance 
is at sea. I’ve heard ’em say as you can live days and 
weeks without food so long as you’ve a drop of water, 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


55 


and so you’re right enough where the rest of us will 
starve. You’ve cut away that boat to keep us where we 
are, and we’re all as good as dead men now.” 

“ It’s true enough,” murmured some of the watchers. 

“ It’s a great lie,” said Henry Dilworth. 

Whether he had for the moment lost his temper, or 
whether he thought the bullying was going too far, and 
that it was time to assert himself, is a difficult question to 
decide. He folded his arms, looked at his opponent, and 
uttered his retort distinctly. 

There was a murmur and a movement among the on- 
lookers; the angry sailor himself stepped forward with a 
gesture of rage. Henry Dilworth was the biggest man 
present, and, in spite of his strong words, the calmest ; but 
it seemed to Agnes at that moment that the whole crowd 
of men was about to attack him. 

She had stood in the background before, unnoticed by 
either of the opponents. Her instincts were to remain 
sheltered and out of sight. She had none of that courage 
which prompts even timid creatures to rush into danger 
for the sake of sharing it with those who are dear to 
them. But Henry Dilworth’s safety was hers ; his life 
was her hope and comfort : without him she was lost. 
Therefore she went forward now, put her delicate hand 
on his arm, and stood facing the men with parted lips 
and the courage of despair. 

There was a pause of surprise. Henry Dilworth glanced 
down upon her, smiled a little, and said, 

“ It’s all right, Miss Leake. Hard words break no 
bones, you know.” 

She turned to him, and the expression in her eyes 
changed to that glance of unfathomable melancholy with 
which she was used to meet his sympathetic smile. 

“But why do they look so? It frightens me. And yet 
I dare not go away.” 

“ No, don’t go. Stay and hear how little it all means. 
Isn’t it a shame, men, to think that with death so near us 
all, as it may be, we must quarrel enough to frighten the 
only woman we’ve got with us ?” 

Most of the sailors looked crestfallen ; the appearance 


56 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


of Agnes and the manner of the accused made them be- 
gin to feel that they were in the wrong. But the princi- 
pal aggressor muttered something about hiding behind a 
woman. 

“Well, I’m not ashamed of it,” Henry Dilworth an- 
swered. “I’ve no right to quarrel, and that’s a fact. No 
more have you, any of you, while we’re stuck fast on this 
island. What’ll they think of us in England, if we ever 
get there, and they hear that we couldn’t agree among 
ourselves in such a hole as this? — if it’s said of us that we 
frightened the lady and child as badly as the shipwreck 
itself frightened them? Let’s have no more of it.” 

“That’s all very well,” growled the sailor; “ it’s us that 
have to be satisfied, not you.” 

“Look here,” said Henry Dilworth, with a quiet and 
apparently unconscious movement shaking himself free 
from Agnes and stepping forward alone, “ if you thought 
I’d done an act of treachery against the lot of you, you’d 
have reason to be angry; treachery would be a vile enough 
thing at such a time. But you’re only vexed because the 
boat’s gone : I’ve given you my word that it’s not my 
fault. I’d have risked my life to keep it there, and I 
think when you’ve time to see it properly, you’ll say as 
much.” 

“Well,” said one of the men, with judicial slowness, “I 
don’t know as we’ve a right to say you. did it; and like 
enough you didn’t. You never did a dirty trick before, 
not as I know on.” 

“ Thank you,” said Henry Dilworth ; “ I never did, and 
I hope I never shall. If I advised you badly, that’s an- 
other matter. I don’t think I did, and I meant it for the 
best.” 

“We’ll not fight about it, anyhow. It’s true as we’ve 
no call to fall out among ourselves. There’s trouble 
enough without that ; but hungry men have short tem- 
pers. Come along, Bill ; it’s not your business more than 
any one else’s. Let’s be off to better work than having 
words.” 

The men moved away in a body, more or less sulkily, 
and after rather a heated discussion among themselves, 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


57 


they scattered to their neglected occupations. Agnes was 
left alone with Henry Dilworth. 

He had resumed his interrupted work, and he took no 
notice of Agnes, who sat down on the ground near him. 
It was not a moment when he would have chosen to look 
into her mind, or to offer any expressions of sympathy. 
His own equanimity was too deeply disturbed, his own 
feelings were too near the surface. 

Nevertheless he was uneasily conscious of her presence, 
and after a short time he found it impossible to ignore 
the fact that, with her hand before her face to conceal it, 
she was quietly crying. 

A reaction had followed her burst of courage and self- 
assertion ; the little attention he had paid to her interfer- 
ence, and his apparent forgetfulness of her afterwards, 
chilled her strangely. She had been used to close per- 
sonal sympathy, to tender personal attachments; the cold- 
ness of his great kindness, the indifference and distance 
of his manners, for the first time made her feel alone even 
with him. She was a helpless child, and he a strong man; 
what did he know of her feelings, or what did he care? 

Pie put down the board at last and turned round to her. 

“I am afraid those foolish men have frightened you, 
Miss Leake.” 

“ It isn’t that,” Agnes answered, in a low voice, which 
she tried to steady; “ I was frightened, very much. But 
now — it is because — you don’t seem to mind.” 

“ I — don’t mind ?” 

He shut up his knife deliberately and restored it to his 
pocket; then he stood looking at her. 

“ Oh, I know you are kind to me,” she said, with some 
petulance; “you saved my life, and have done everything 
for me. But — you don’t really care — nobody does — and 
— I’ve never been used to nobody caring.” 

He looked at her curiously and did not answer. He 
walked away a little distance, and came back again. 

“ What do you want me to do ?” 

“Do?” she repeated. “^Nothing. You do everything 
you can. But you don’t understand; you don’t care, real- 
ly. It made me miserable when I thought those men were 


58 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


going to hurt you; and you don’t mind what I feel at all. 
You are never miserable. You feel nothing — nothing !” 

“Not when I see you in trouble, and can’t help you?” 
he asked, in a subdued voice. 

“ Oh, you are sorry for me, I know.” 

“Sorry for you!” he repeated, with a gesture of impa- 
tience. “ What more would you have ? what more will 
you have ? It’s all here.” 

He put out both hands towards her as if he expected 
her to take them ; then he drew back suddenly, and said, 
“Miss Leake, don’t try me more when I am tried enough 
already.” 

“I don’t understand,” she answered, looking up ear- 
nestly into his face. 

He walked away a few paces again, and came back with 
an altered look. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he said, “ I was talking nonsense. 
Don’t think of it.” 


CHAPTER II. 

A DESERT SOLITUDE. 

The life of castaways on a desert island is ordinarily 
monotonous in its misery, and the accounts of sufferings 
in actual shipwrecks are as brief as they are significant. 
One day resembles another ; one misery is like the last. 
A few paragraphs are all that can be written to represent 
days or weeks of suffering; little food, no fuel, no shelter, 
describes often enough in six wOrrds a condition which 
lasts through endless hours and culminates in death. 

In after- years Agnes could tell but little of her expe- 
rience on the island. It was horrible; she was wretched; 
she thought continually of those at home, and Henry Dil- 
worth was kind to her. That was the brief substance of 
a long endurance. 

The good ship Swan was reckoned after a time among 
the “ missing with all hands.” 

There were mourners in Australia and mourners in Eng- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


59 


land. Black dresses and crape were worn in the valley 
of Elmdale. Agnes and Kate were wept for as among 
the early dead. 

But all the while on her desert island Agnes clung pas- 
sionately to life, protesting more and more, as time went 
on, against the possible end of the suffering, feeling her- 
self shut out in her young fulness of hope from the living 
world, thinking sometimes with bitter tears, “ Now they 
are getting used to it ; now they are forgetting ; now, 
perhaps, they are saying, SShe is better off, poor thing!’ 
when all the time I am wanting help as I never did be- 
fore.” 

“ Why should they think we are dead ?” she would say, 
fretfully, to Henry Dilworth ; “ why don’t they send to 
look for us?” Then, with a sudden thought, she added 
once, “ Perhaps Kate is not dead, nor Jack. Perhaps 
they are waiting too.” 

But Henry Dilworth answered sadly, shaking his head, 
“ It isn’t possible.” 

What Henry Dilworth was to her in those days of 
wretchedness she could never adequately describe. She 
did not realize it at the time; it was only afterwards that 
she looked back and saw how he had made it possible for 
her to go on living, when without him she would have 
died. His care protected her from the extremes of phys- 
ical suffering which her frail body could not have resist- 
ed; his sympathy was the moral support which prevented 
her mind from yielding to that hopeless depression which 
threatened to overcome her. It was he who built the lit- 
tle hut which sheltered her and the child after their first 
few nights on shore; it was he who relinquished his own 
share of the store of food in order to eke out hers and 
make it last longer, contenting himself altogether with 
the nauseous sea-birds’ flesh. It was he who netted a 
hammock of string, and even contrived a pillow of sea- 
birds’ feathers for her use, so that she was no longer com- 
pelled to sleep on the hard, damp ground. In every way 
possible he alleviated the hardships of her position and 
mitigated its lonely misery. 

The other men were kind but rough ; they could not 


60 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


understand her feelings, and she had no pleasure in speak- 
ing to them. But Henry Dilworth was sympathetic as 
well as patient. He would listen for hours when she 
talked of home and described to him her happy life and 
the kindly people there. She asked for no information 
in return for all she gave to him; she showed no interest 
in his past career or present situation. She might have 
imagined that he had no personal history, that his life 
began with her need of his help and sympathy. For the 
adventures he had related on the vessel remained mere 
idle tales to her, having no reality, no bearing on his act- 
ual existence. 

In spite of all his efforts to alleviate the hardship of 
her position, she suffered miserably, physically as well as 
mentally. Her health began to fail, her strength de- 
creased, and her appetite lessened as the quality of the 
food which it was possible to offer to her deteriorated. 

Then the little boy sickened and died. It was some 
disappointment to Henry Dilworth to find how little sym- 
pathy she, who demanded so much herself, had for the 
ailing child. His illness did not rouse her to helpful ex- 
ertion; she shrank, on the contrary, from seeing him, and 
expressed more than once a dread of his dying in her 
presence. Henry Dilworth took him from her hut to his 
own, and nursed him there. 

That was a miserable time for Agnes. She saw less of 
Henry Dilworth. than usual, and even when she saw him 
she evidently occupied less of his thoughts than before. 
There was a need stronger than hers at the moment, and 
he did not fail to answer to it. His loving care of the child, 
his sympathy, his patience, won back to him the hearts 
of the rough but kindly sailors, and they were inclined 
to do what they could to help in his work of mercy. Only 
Agnes stood aloof, perplexed, fretful, miserable. She did 
not like the child, which had, indeed, nothing pretty or 
pleasing about it; she liked it still less for being ill; she 
. felt only that its sickness added to the misery, that its 
death would increase the horror of the place. 

But when it was all over, and the little sufferer was laid 
in his dreary grave, to suffer no more, Henry Dilworth 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


61 


first forgave, and afterwards forgot, the insensibility of 
Agnes. She could not help it, he thought; she was too 
frail herself to endure the reflected sufferings of others. 
Her sweet, appealing look had no hint of selfishness in it; 
her attitude of gentle demand was beautiful enough to 
seem right and reasonable; her timidity and meekness put 
a pleasing veil over anything which might have seemed 
ugly or obtrusive in her demands on others. 

Her failing strength and increasing hopelessness gave 
her at last an apparent patience ; she ceased to complain, 
ceased to ask for anything, but sat with weary looks in a 
silence that refused to be comforted. 

It moved Henry Dil worth to unutterable pity to see the 
dreary melancholy in her worn face, the face which had 
been so soft in its outlines, so hopeful in its expression. 

After the first few weeks she shrank from much talk, 
even with him; her eyes alone perpetually demanded 
some help, some change, something to be done to put an 
end to horrors too great to be borne; and yet it seemed, 
as the weeks went on to months and still no succor came, 
that there was nothing left for him to do for her ; he 
could only watch her die. 

It was the hardest thing he had endured in his life to 
pass those days on the island without the possibility of 
procuring a single one of all the comforts needed by the 
sick girl. Her pathetic eyes haunted him, even in the 
darkness ; her faint and weary voice sounded in his ears 
like a perpetual reproach. It comforted him little to know 
that her life had been prolonged so far chiefly by his ef- 
forts on her behalf; it was little satisfaction to feel that 
he had already done very much, so long as that much was 
miserably inadequate. 

A dull depression overcame at last the spirits of all on 
the island. They clung to life with the obstinacy of an 
inherited instinct, but it was a life devoid of any sort of 
satisfaction, and lighted only by a tiny spark of hope. 

This hope was kindled to a blaze — once, twice, three 
times — by the appearance of a far-off ship. It was only a 
speck on the horizon, but it meant to them food and shel- 
ter, safety and home. They greeted the appearance of the 


62 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


first ship with tumultuous delight, and believed their de- 
liverance secure. But all their efforls to attract atten- 
tion proved useless; the ship passed on and made no sign 
of having seen them. It was the same with the second 
and third vessels which were sighted on the far-off hori- 
zon ; and these repeated disappointments produced an im- 
patient excitement among the men not easy to control. 
Henry Dilworth regarded the appearance of the ships one 
after another as a hopeful sign. It was evident that 
whaling or some other business brought vessels near the 
island at this season of the year, and he considered it im- 
possible that many could pass without observing the sig- 
nals of distress made from the cliffs. 

But the agitation and suspense were injurious to Agnes, 
and threatened to extinguish the faint spark of life left 
in her. It flickered up brightly with the coming of hope, 
only to die down into a dim glimmer when the hope pass- 
ed away. When a ship was announced to be in sight, the 
brightness came back to her eye and a flush to her hollow 
cheek; she found strength to clamber up the rocks, and 
from the highest point to watch with the rest the move- 
ments of that insignificant speck which filled them all 
with overpowering excitement. When the speck became 
fainter and smaller, and finally disappeared, the deadly 
pallor returned to the young girl’s cheek and the trem- 
bling weakness to her limbs. She needed the help of Hen- 
ry Dilworth to struggle back to her hut, and there lie 
down breathless and exhausted in the hammock he had 
made for her. 

It grieved him at those times to let her go in alone, and 
to hear her sobbing afterwards in the silence and darkness 
of the place. Outside he paced about in a fever of rebel- 
lion, for it was dreadful to him to feel that he could not 
give to her the tender care which she would have had at 
such a moment from a mother or a sister. She was so 
weak now that it had become an effort for her to do any- 
thing for herself; and he would have chosen to nurse her 
as he had nursed the little boy — to be at her call every 
hour of the day and night. 

She could struggle in and out of her hut in the daytime 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


63 


to look at the sunshine, and to eat the miserable meals 
which his cooking made the most of for her sake ; but he 
knew that her nights were wretched, that she could not 
sleep much, that when she did sleep she was afflicted by 
dreadful dreams, from which she woke shivering and ter- 
rified. 

“If many more ships come — and go,” she said to him, 
“ it will kill me, I know. My heart beats so that I can 
hardly bear it afterwards.” 

When the third ship disappeared from sight, she was 
sitting with the rest on the highest point of the island be- 
side the bonfire which had been made. The daylight 
was fading; the sinking sun and all the sea were being 
swallowed up in a dull mist. She looked over the nar- 
rowing expanse of water with an expression of hopeless- 
ness. 

“ If another comes,” she said to Henry Dilworth, “ it 
will be too late now.” 

“ Let me take you back to your cabin,” was all he an- 
swered; “it is getting very cold here.” 

“Do you think I can get back ?” she said. “ I feel as if 
I could never walk again.” 

“You are tired, you want rest. Give me your hand. It 
is too far to come.” 

“I thought it was for the last time,” she said — “that I 
should never go back to the hut, I mean. Why should I 
go ? I might as well die here.” 

“You are not dying ; and if you cannot walk I will car- 
ry you.” 

She smiled faintly. “ It isn’t quite so bad as that yet, 
I think.” 

Nevertheless, when she rose to her feet she trembled 
very much, and seemed hardly able to stand. He put his 
arm round her supportingly, and she leaned against him 
trembling still. 

“ You are sorry for me, are you not?” she asked, look- 
ing wistfully into his face. 

“ A great deal more than sorry.” 

She glanced round her drearily, taking in all the dreary 
features of the place. 


64 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“I think I shall never come here again,” she said; “to- 
day was my last chance. Let us go.” 

With the help of his supporting arm she made her way 
slowly back to her hut. At the door of it she paused 
breathless, and leaning against Henry Dilworth looked 
again into his face. 

“ If I die, and they come in time, don’t leave me here, 
don’t bury me here ; take me with you.” 

It was a strange request, and it moved him strangely. 

“ If I can’t take you with me alive, it seems as if I 
shouldn’t care to go myself,” he answered. 

She looked at him with a faint surprise and pleasure. 

“Do you care so much?” she said; “that is more than 
being kind.” 

She seemed reluctant to enter the solitary, comfortless 
hut ; she had glanced at it once with a shrinking move- 
ment; now she remained leaning against his arm, as if she 
found strength as well as rest there. 

“ Don’t go far away,” she said, suddenly. “ I am 
afraid.” 

“ I will stay near enough to hear if you speak to me,” 
he answered. 

“And if I die, bring me out; don’t leave me to die in 
the dark alone.” 

“ I will come if you speak,” he repeated. 

The position was beyond words. He did not know how 
to offer all the pitying tenderness which he felt. 

She turned her eyes to him earnestly, as if with an un- 
uttered question. 

“And speak to me; tell me you are sorry; don’t let me 
die as if no one cared.” 

. She looked away again over the sea, and then back to 
his face. 

“ They care at home; they love me. They would come 
if they could, to be with me and make it easier. But they 
are far away, and they don’t know; they think I am dead 
already. You are here, only you. You must not let me 
feel alone, forgotten. You must tell me — oh! it’s no use,” 
she broke off suddenly; “what do I want?” and raising 
herself from his support, she went into the hut. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


65 


Henry Dilworth made no effort to sleep that night. 
Through all the long hours of it he paced up and down 
outside her door. He could not rest, could not cease to 
think of her for a moment. She was in such terrible 
need of loving care, of the closest tenderness, that it was 
a dreadful thing to leave her to spend those hours of dark- 
ness alone, looking into the coming face of death. If only 
he could have sat beside her to chafe her cold hands and 
speak reassuringly, that would at least have been some 
comfort to her, though but a small part of all she needed. 
Never before had he been in a position where help was ur- 
gently required of a sort which he could not give, and it 
was miserable to him to feel that she missed the many per- 
sonal attentions which a woman could have given in his 
place. 

“ When she is dying it will be too late,” he said to him- 
self. “ I want to save her life.” 

As he walked up and down in the fog and darkness 
outside her door, a thought came to him which flushed his 
face and quickened his steps. 

“ If it were possible it might be worth while, even for 
her sake. There is no other way in which I could have 
the chance of doing the best for her and keeping her alive. 
But it isn’t possible here, even if she would consent.” 

She was so young, he thought, to die for the want of 
that care and tenderness which it would have been his 
delight to lavish upon her; so young, and she might be 
saved for a life of happiness and love. 

With the sinking of the sun the wind had fallen to a 
dead calm, and with its falling the hopes of Henry Dil- 
worth sank lower. It was the wind, probably, which had 
driven the ships so near the island; if it passed away, the 
chance of more vessels following the same course would 
be lessened. 

A thick mist crept over the sea stealthily and steadily 
as the hours darkened to midnight. It hushed the heav- 
ing waters, it swallowed up the outlying rocks and the 
white foam on the shore, it covered the island and clung 
about it. 

When morning broke, the air was very still. A deep 
5 


66 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


calm reigned over the invisible sea; hardly was the dull 
thunder of the breakers heard on the rocks below. The 
daylight struggled feebly through the mist; no sun was at 
first to be seen, but towards noon the light grew stronger, 
the fog lifted, and suddenly the sea was visible. A great 
shout went up from the sailors who were standing near the 
shore, and the shout awakened Agnes from a late uneasy 
slumber. 

She rose on her elbow and listened, her heart beating 
painfully. There was something strange, wild, jubilant in 
the shout, and she could not tell what it might portend. 

Then she heard the voice of Henry Dilworth at her 
door — that voice which had been so often to her the as- 
surance of help. 

“Are you awake, Miss Leake?” 

She could not speak to answer him, but she sat up in 
her hammock and drew her rain-cloak more tightly about 
her, looking expectantly at the door. 

Henry Dilworth was alarmed by the silence. For a mo- 
ment he thought that his worst fears were realized. He 
pushed open the rickety door and went straight in. 

When he saw her leaning forward in her hammock, gaz- 
ing at him, fearfully, entreatingly, as if she dreaded his 
errand, and begged him to spare her more shocks of dis- 
appointment, he could find no words to tell her his news 
without startling her. He lifted her in his arms and car- 
ried her out to look at the sea. 

There was no need of any explanation. 

The pale sun shone through the mist still hanging 
about the sea, and shed a chilly gleam on the gray water, 
where, with her image reflected on the shining surface, 
lay a ship at anchor, and a little boat was already mak- 
ing for the land. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


67 


CHAPTER III. 

FROM DEATH TO LIFE. 

It did not tak§ long for tlie inhabitants of the island to 
prepare for their departure. Where no one had a second 
suit of clothes, and every one had lived and slept for five 
months in the dress he stood in, there was no packing of 
trunks nor any changing of costumes. The accumulated 
possessions of them all did not include anything worth 
carrying away; the very kettle — the one cooking utensil 
they had been provided with — had suffered from over- 
work, and was no longer in a condition to do much service 
to any one. The clothes of the. men were ragged and 
worn ; some of them had lost their hats, and nearly all 
were barefoot. 

Agnes alone, the most helpless and, therefore, the most 
protected of those on the island, still appeared in tolerable 
garments, worn and faded though they were. 

The men rushed down to the beach with wild cries of 
joy. They were soon shouting directions to the sailors 
in the boat which was drawing near. The calmness of 
the sea made it easier to approach the shore than it had 
been on the first arrival of the shipwrecked, and the sailors 
plunged through the water to scramble into the boat be- 
fore it touched the land. In the excitement they had 
forgotten everything except their own unexpected res- 
cue ; but when, in a tumult of delight, they had shaken 
hands with their deliverers, they remembered, not with- 
out a tinge of shame, that there was some one else to 
think of. 

“ The lady ! There’s the lady !” they said. 

“If she’s alive yet,” added one, “for she seemed bad 
enough last night. Perhaps Mr. Dil worth’s gone for her.” 

The strange sailors rested on their oars and looked up 


68 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


at the island. Even in calm weather it was not possible 
to row right in to the strip of beach without danger or 
injury to the boat from the pointed rocks over which the 
breakers foamed. 

. “Bring the boat round here,” they heard the voice of 
Henry Dilworth calling to them. 

Then they saw that he had carried Agnes down to the 
projecting piece of rock where she and the child had 
landed on their first arrival. It was in a sheltered nook 
of the cliff, where the water was calmer than beside the 
beach, but the rocks rose straight from the level of the 
sea. 

One of the sailors went on shore and clambered round 
to Henry Dil worth’s assistance. Together the two men 
slung Agnes gently down in her own hammock to the 
boat waiting underneath. Then they slipped down the 
rope after her, and were ready to go. 

The new-comers had been sufficiently impressed by the 
gaunt faces and ragged garments of the shipwrecked 
sailors ; they had welcomed them with somewhat boister- 
ous sympathy. The pale, worn face of Agnes touched 
them differently, and subdued them almost to silence ; 
only low murmurs and shakings of the head signified the 
melancholy view they took of her case. 

“ Poor thing ! she’s far gone or, “ I reckon we’re too 
late,” and so on ; while Henry Dilworth arranged Agnes 
as comfortably as he could, and the others looked on as 
if afraid to touch so broken a thing. She glanced round 
her meanwhile with bright, anxious eyes, and tried to 
catch what the men were saying. 

“It isn’t too late, is it?” she appealed to Henry Dil- 
worth. “I shall not die now ; I shall go home.” 

“ I think you won’t die now. I hope you will go home.” 

He had fixed her in the easiest position he could con- 
trive under the circumstances, and now he told the men 
to go on. 

But when the boat began to move through the water, 
the eagerness of Agnes to watch the ship looming nearer 
and larger overcame her sense of fatigue ; she "was not 
content to remain lying as he had placed her ; she begged 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


69 


to be raised and supported so that she could see properly. 
Henry Dil worth was obliged to put his arm under her 
head and lift it. She rested then against his shoulder 
with all the unconsciousness given by absorbing excite- 
ment ; and she turned her bright eyes to him from time 
to time with a look that demanded sympathy and encour- 
agement in her new hope of life. 

In the stillness of the strange light shining over the 
tranquil sea, with the cries of the sea-birds in their ears, 
they drew nearer to the ship. She seemed to Agnes a 
beautiful thing, a heaven-sent messenger, a home, or at 
least a certain way to one. The horror of those barren 
rocks which rose out of the gray waters was left behind 
forever. Agnes was safe, she would get well, she would 
see her friends again. These were the only thoughts in 
her mind at the moment. It was not strange to her to 
rest on Henry Dilworth’s shoulder, or to feel the pressure 
of his supporting arm ; but to him — at this moment, when 
he saw that their parting must be near — it was strange 
indeed, and bitter as well as sweet, to feel her leaning on 
him so. 

They reached the ship, and Agnes was given up to 
the care of the captain’s wife, the only woman on board. 
The good creature received her with every womanly at- 
tention, lent her clothes, put her to bed in her own cabin, 
and tended her with her own hands. Afterwards she 
went up to make her report to “ the gentleman ” on the 
condition of “ the lady.” She was somewhat . surprised 
when Henry Dilworth spoke of the latter personage as 
“ Miss Leake.” 

“ The lady’s not your wife, then ?” 

“ Certainly not. She lost her friends in the wreck, and 
has had no one except me and the sailors to look after 
her since.” 

This little mistake vexed him. It added to his uneasi- 
ness, and the perplexity of the situation. He saw his own 
line of duty clearly enough ; but did Agnes see it in the 
same way? Would she understand him? When would 
she awake to the knowledge that they had returned 
to the civilized world, and that he had no longer a 


70 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


right to be to her all that he had been in their desolate 
retreat ? 

For one whole day the calm weather compelled the ship 
to remain within sight of the island. The gray sea and 
the black rocks, the thick and heavy air hanging about 
them, made up a melancholy picture for those just escaped 
to gaze upon. The fog had lifted and thinned, but the 
sun’s rays were chilled as they passed through it : far 
distances were hidden, nearer distances blurred and mag- 
nified. The island itself looked unreal, revealed in a gap 
of the mist, the waters calm about it, the rocks reflected, 
a clearly defined thing amid a world of concealment ; it 
was as if the corner of a curtain had been raised to re- 
veal a lurking horror underneath. 

“It is like a nightmare to look at that dreadful place,” 
Agnes said to Henry Dilworth, when, refreshed by food 
and sleep, she sat -on the deck some hours later. “ When 
I shut my eyes I shall always see it — always.” 

“ I think not. After a time you will forget,” he said, 
gently, with a thought of other things which would pass 
away from her memory too. 

“ At least it is good to see it only, not to feel or touch 
it any more.” Agnes went on. “ It was like a prison that 
h^d goi hold ol us and never meant to let us go. Even 
now it keeps us here. I should be afraid still if I were 
alone ; but when I look at you I feel that it is all right.” 

He did not answer her. The time was over when such 
statements seemed natural and easy to respond to. There- 
fore he received her hopeful speeches in a strange silence 
which she was too much excited to remark. She seemed 
to be conscious of no change in their relation to each 
other, and she expected him to care for her comfort now 
as he had cared for it on the desolate island. 

With the dawn of the next day the wind rose, and the 
island was left far behind. Henry Dilworth had already 
begun to think of the future, and it surprised him a little 
that Agnes should have formed no plans for herself, or at 
least should speak of none. 

The fact was, she took it absolutely for granted that 
she would return home at once, in the quickest and most 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


71 


comfortable way, and that he would see to all necessary 
arrangements on her behalf. She did not even remember 
that he might not be going to England at all, that his 
business would probably take him in an opposite direc- 
tion. She had grown used to his care, and looked upon 
it now as a necessity, if not a right. Under no circum- 
stances would she have expected to look after her own 
affairs. If he had not been present, she would have been 
compelled to appeal for help to some one else. If she 
had been put on the vessel alone she would hardly have 
attempted to plan her homeward journey herself, but 
rather, having signified her address, she would have ex- 
pected to be handed on from captain to captain, like a 
bale of goods well labelled, until she reached her right 
destination. Ways and means of travel were wholly be- 
yond her knowledge ; her people at home would repay all 
trouble taken on her behalf, and meanwhile it was natu- 
ral that some one should be kind to her and tell her what 

to do. .-..I-, 

Now that the terrible privations of the island oppress- 
ed her no longer, now that safety took the place of dan- 
ger, and hope replaced despair, she found in her inter- 
course with Henry Dilworth something that was more 
than consolation, that was actually enjoyment. Never 
before had any one on whom she had grown accustomed 
to rely mingled deference with tender care. Her loveis 
in the past had not touched her heart ; there had been no 
need for her to rest on their kindness, no occasion to rely 
on their knowledge. Her brothers and sisters, on the 
other hand, had found in her no qualities to wonder at 
or to admire with reverence. 

Henry Dilworth laid the flattering homage of a suitor 
at her feet while wrapping her about with the tender 
care of a guardian and protector. How could she fail, 
then, to find a charm in this intercourse which led her to 
the delights of a new experience through the safe and 
well-trodden paths of old feelings and habits? 

While he thought of the parting to come, walking care- 
fully with his eyes fixed on the end near at hand, that 
nothing might be done which would look strange in the 


72 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


light of that separation which he believed to be inevita- 
ble, she never thought of any end to their intercourse, 
any future which would contradict this present. 

She had never yet begun a friendship which had not 
gone on as steadily as life itself went on in Elmdale. 
Her affections had been almost exclusively confined to 
her family circle ; these had, as a matter of course, no 
ebbing or flowing, but coursed evenly onward through 
the months and years. She had never known what it 
was to be intimate with persons whom she was destined 
to forget ; and Henry Dilworth had long since ceased 
to appear a mere episode in her life. Outside her home 
circle he had become its mainspring; she did not even 
think of the home circle without feeling as if she were 
speaking of it to him. That reflection of her own life 
which she found in the sympathy of another, and which 
was essential to her happiness, she had received from him 
more completely than from any one else. It did not oc- 
cur to her that the life must soon arrange itself without 
it, or that the moment was approaching when Henry Dil- 
worth must pass out of her existence completely and for- 
ever. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A STRANGE EXPERIMENT. 

In an unhome - like, foreign - looking room in a South 
American port Agnes sat alone. She had not yet been 
on shore twelve hours, but already she was horrified at 
the place and frightened at her solitude there. After 
recommending her to the attention of the landlady — a 
woman who couldn’t speak English — Henry Dilworth had 
gone out to transact business, and had only looked in a 
few minutes at noon to ask how she was. 

She had been much better on board the ship than on 
the island ; food and comparative comfort, with hope and 
freedom from anxiety, had given her injured health a 
chance of recovery. But already the bright look of an- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


73 


ticipation had faded out of her face; repugnance, per- 
plexity, and dread were expressed there instead. She 
was pale, the corners of her mouth drooped ; she looked 
tired and dispirited. A meal had been set before her, but 
she did not taste it ; she sat quite still, leaning back in 
her chair and looking continually at the door. 

She was discouraged, melancholy, frightened. The sail- 
ors had of course dispersed, and she did not expect, or 
desire, to see them any more ; but why did Mr. Dil- 
worth leave her alone among strange people — foreigners, 
whom she could not understand and did not like ? There 
was no room for real terror here, but nervous dislike of 
strange customs and dread of uncomfortable situations 
took its place. 

She looked at the food and could not eat it ; she hated 
to take a meal alone. Why did he not come back and 
speak to her ? She might have been very ill, she might 
have wanted a hundred things in his absence. He had 
been for so many months almost always within her call, 
and now he was already lost to her in a foreign town, the 
streets of which were at this moment more terrifying to 
her, more unexplorable, than had been the desolate cliffs 
of her island prison. While she stayed in-doors she had 
no one to appeal to ; and if she went out she would cer- 
tainly never find her way back. She was like a neglect- 
ed child, ready to cry because its nurse had gone away 
and forgotten it. 

At last Henry Dilworth returned, but hardly in the 
anxious and sympathetic mood she had expected. He 
had an absorbed and somewhat disturbed expression on 
his face ; he was like a man who has business on hand 
which he does not care to do, and which he is resolved to 
get over as soon as possible. But she was too glad to 
see him to study his looks. She uttered a little cry of 
pleasure and reproach. 

“ What a long time you have been away !” 

“ Yes, there was a good deal to do.” 

He glanced at the table, and a little frown of disap- 
pointment wrinkled itself on his forehead. 

“ Haven’t you dined ? I hoped I had given you time 


n 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


enough. I told them to bring it in to you, and then I 
thought you would be ready to talk to me.” 

“ I am ready, quite ready. How could I eat all by my- 
self ? It was so lonely, and I was frightened.” 

“ Frightened ?” 

“I didn’t know where you had gone, and I couldn’t 
make these people understand me. Suppose I had been 
ill?” she added, with some petulance. 

He looked at her anxiously. 

“ You don’t feel so, I hope ? You haven’t wanted any- 
thing ?” 

“I don’t know. I feel very miserable and lonely in 
this strange place ; and I didn’t know when you would 
come back.” 

“I was sure to come back. But you must have some- 
thing to eat now. This is the way to be ill — to have no 
dinner.” 

“How can I eat alone?” she repeated; “but you’ll 
have something with me, won’t you? Tell them to bring 
in more things.” 

“I would rather not, thank you. I will serve you, if 
you’ll let me. I’ve had what I require.” 

“ Oh, while I was waiting !” 

Her voice trembled, and a tear fell on her dress. 

“ Miss Leake,” he said, with grave impatience, unlike 
his habitual compassionate indulgence ; “ you don’t mean 
that you waited for me to come and dine with you ?” 

“ Why not ?” she asked, looking at him with no at- 
tempt to conceal the shining drops in her eyes. 

He hesitated, looked at her, and then said, gravely and 
quietly, “ Never mind. It does not matter. If you will 
eat something first we will talk about other things after- 
wards.” 

“ I can’t eat ; I’m not hungry,” she answered, shortly. 

From his eyes it seemed as if distress was now added 
to his perplexity. He sat down, looked at her silently, 
and sighed. 

“You look tired,” he said, abruptly. 

“ It doesn’t matter,” she answered, the corners of her 
mouth trembling ; “I’m sure to be tired.” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


75 

He moved his hand over his forehead in a troubled 
manner ; then he seemed to shake off with an effort the 
impression her words had made on him, and he asked 
gravely and gently, “Are you fit to talk about arrange- 
ments to-night, or shall we wait until to-morrow ?” 

“Arrangements? I don’t understand.” 

“ What you will do — how you will get home, I mean.” 

“ Oh !” There was some surprise in the little exclama- 
tion, some perplexity also. 

“ Of course, you will go back to England, to your 
friends, as soon as you can.” 

She looked at him with a kind of wonder. She had 
not expected him to state so self-evident a fact. 

“ There is one thing I want to ask you,” he went on 
rather hurriedly, “before I forget. Have you any money?” 

Her face had grown pale. No more tears gathered in 
her eyes, which opened wider and looked at him with a 
species of dread, as if she felt afraid of what he might be 
going to say. Mechanically she took her purse from her 
pocket and emptied its contents on the table before him. 
She was sitting at one corner of it, and he on the oppo- 
site side. Two sovereigns and some silver rolled out. 

“You will want some more,” he said; “will you take 
this and put it in your purse? Your friends will pay me 
back when you get to them.” 

She took the coins indifferently ; no reluctance about 
accepting them troubled her ; of course peojffe would 
provide her with what she needed until she got home, and 
then Susie would pay them ; but she asked, “Why should 
I take it now? Won’t it do when I want it? I never 
pay for things myself ; people would cheat me.” 

“It is for the other end. I can arrange for your pas- 
sage, and your bill here. But you must not land in Eng- 
land without money.” 

“They will meet me.” 

“If they shouldn’t?” 

“You can give it to me, then, when I want it.” 

He looked at her steadily; her eyes met his with an 
appealing, entreating confidence difficult to answer at the 
moment, yet he felt compelled to speak,. 


76 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ I am going to Australia,” he said. 

“ To — Australia?” 

Her face became even paler than it was before ; the 
thin hands resting on her knee closed in a nervous clasp ; 
he could not take his eyes from hers, and that made the 
effort to go on much harder; but having begun, he seemed 
to have no further choice. 

“ I was going to Australia before. My business is 
there. I have none in England.” 

“No,” she assented in a low voice, still watching his 
lips as he spoke. 

“You are safe here now, there is nothing more I can 
do for you ; you will go home by the next ship. One is 
expected to touch in a few days. The consul will see 
you on board. I have spoken to him about you.” 

“The consul?” 

If he had said the North Pole it would have been as 
intelligible to her. 

“The people here will make you as comfortable as 
they can till the ship arrives. You will have no difficul- 
ty at all.” 

“I am to stay here — alone?” 

“ For a few days only.” 

“And I am to go to England — alone?” 

“Did you expect anything else?” 

She did not answer; she put her clasped hands on the 
table and laid her head down on them ; then there was a 
long silence. 

Henry Dilworth got up and moved away restlessly. 

“Is there anything you would like me to do?” he 
asked. He felt that he had been clumsy, brutal ; and yet 
for her own sake it seemed necessary that the tie between 
them should be speedily cut, before it was knotted fast 
enough to bring to her unhappiness and to him reproach. 
Here was a situation in which his general capability did 
not help him ; he was always Teady to do things, but to 
leave them undone gracefully was another matter. It 
had been very simple to take care of this poor girl and 
be kind to her, when that was his evident duty ; to leave 
her now, when the duty was done and the need for him 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


77 


over, was altogether different. Yet his own reluctance 
was a warning to him. He was altogether too much in- 
terested in her to continue a protection which could be 
more safely given — and as efficiently — by an indifferent 
person. 

She did not answer at first. When she lifted her face 
it was white and despondent. She looked as if the knowl- 
edge that she must face the world alone had taken her 
poor little chance of life away. 

“ I shall never get to England without you,” she said 
in a low voice, as if she spoke to herself. 

He glanced at her with quick compunction. It seemed, 
indeed, as if she spoke the truth. Her worn face and 
wasted hands told how small an amount of vitality her 
sufferings had left to her. Abandoned to the care of 
strangers, deprived of that confidential sympathy which 
seemed essential to her, would not her spark of life go 
out before it could be rekindled at the warm fire of home? 

“Did you expect me to go with you?” he asked. 

“ I never thought of anything else.” 

“ Would you like me to go ?” 

A faint color came back to her face, and an eager ques- 
tion into her eyes, but she did not speak. 

“After all, what could I do for you? On the island 
there was no one else, no one more fit ; but now any 
woman will nurse you and look after you as I cannot do.” 

She leaned back in her chair and sighed a little. 

“ It is not nursing I want.” 

“ It is nursing that you want,” he repeated, impatient- 
ly. He was looking at her keenly, but he spoke as much 
to himself as to her ; “ without it I don’t know how 
you’ll pull through.” 

“I don’t care if I don’t pull through,” said Agnes, 
turning her face away with a flush of passion. 

“ As for anything else,” he went on, without replying 
to her observation, “ how can I take care of you? What 
can I do for you ? I have no right to take care of you 
now.” 

“Ho right? I don’t understand. There is no one else 
— if you cared to do.” 


78 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“Miss Leake !” He came nearer and stood before her, 
the corner of the table between them. “There is one 
way in which I could be all you need — only one ; but it 
is impossible.” 

She shook her head wearily as a sign that she did not 
understand. He stood looking at her, his face flushed, 
his eyes observant. He was no longer the man who had 
made up his mind to do a disagreeable thing, and who 
was doing it clumsily and reluctantly. He was more like 
one who sees a new opening before him, difficult but pos- 
sible, and who studies its obstacles with growing deter- 
mination. 

That thought which had come to him in the last 
night on the island, and which he had since dismissed 
as a treason to her confidence in him, returned to him 
now. 

It had first flashed on his mind as holding a forlorn 
hope for her in her desperate situation ; but it had not 
then been practicable, even if he had decided that it was 
advisable. Here it was indeed possible, but it was no 
longer so necessary, unless, indeed, her weakness and her 
persistent reliance on him made it so. Would it be kind 
or unkind to offer her the chance of it — to give her the 
opportunity of taking all he had to give, or leaving all 
untaken ? 

If she started for England alone, and died by the way, 
of what use to her would have been his reticence and 
self -repression? Was not the assurance of life — an as- 
surance which she herself only saw in his continued care 
and kindness — of more avail to her at this moment than 
freedom in the future? Was it not, indeed, as necessary 
for him now to take her life and cherish it as it had been 
before to save and guard it ? 

“ If she cares for me enough, if it seems a natural thing 
to her, it might be worth while for her own sake after all.” 

So he said to himself as he looked at her. It did not 
occur to him to balance the good or the evil on his own 
behalf; the sole consideration for him at the moment 
seemed to be her safety, her interest, how best he could 
take care of her, cherish her into happy hope, nurse her 


IN SHALLOW WATEES. 


79 


into health, restore her certainly to her friends ; and he 
could think of one way — only one. 

Then he thought of how it could be done, all in the 
minute in which he stood there looking at her — and he 
resolved that he would have shaped his intention fully 
before he disturbed her mind with a further hint. 

“ There is one way,” he repeated, aloud, “ but I must see 
if it can easily be managed here — and how; then I will 
speak to you about it. I must leave you again now, but I 
will see you in an hour or so. Try to rest meanwhile — 
will you ?” 

She threw a glance of repugnance round the room. 

“ It’s not very comfortable,” he said, “ but it was so 
much worse on the island ; and there you were obedient, 
and did what I said was for your good.” 

“ On the island you were kind to me,” she replied. 

“And not here?” He put his large hands lightly on 
her two shoulders and looked down into her face ; such a 
young, sweet, and withal desponding face it was that looked 
at him ! He lifted his hands and turned away with an in- 
comprehensible movement of impatience. 

“ Lie down now, and do try to rest. I shall be in again 
soon.” And so he left her. 

It was growing dusk when he came back. She was ly- 
ing on a couch, with her eyes closed ; the uneaten dinner 
had been taken away. 

The landlady spoke to him as he went in. The lady 
seemed very ill, she remarked ; she would eat nothing at 
all. Did she faint sometimes? — she seemed almost like 
that when they went in to take the meal away, but they 
had got her to swallow some wine. She seemed almost 
like a child, and so delicate. Did she need a doctor? 
Shouldn’t she have a maid to nurse her and look after her? 
It was a sad pity that there were no English in the place, 
so that they could speak to her, poor thing ! How did she 
come to be travelling alone? 

Henry Dilworth explained that her friends had been 
drowned in the wreck : he did not know about the maid ; 
she wouldn’t be of much use if she couldn’t speak English ; 
he would ask the lady herself ; and then he went in to 


80 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Agnes, shutting the door behind him. W ould not he him- 
self, he thought, be kinder and more efficient than any 
hired nurse, if she would give him the right ? 

She opened her eyes as he came in, and he saw that 
there were tears on the lashes. One arm was thrown back 
under her head, which rested uneasily upon it. 

“You don’t look comfortable,” Henry Dilworth said; 
“ let me raise the cushion and he went forward and re- 
adjusted it. 

“ How much better you make it !” she said, with a faint 
smile, as her head nestled against it, and her eyes rested 
mournfully, almost reproachfully, upon him. 

“Yet I am very clumsy, and not used to touching things 
that want delicate hands about them. Don’t you find that 
out? Don’t you feel it?” 

“You always seem able to do the things you want to 
do,” she answered. “ When you want to make me com- 
fortable you can.” 

“But I don’t always want?” 

“ I — suppose not.” 

“ Very well ; you shall please yourself. If you like my 
care — if it seems to you sufficient — ” and then he paused. 

It seemed to him that in his desire to discover her need, 
irrespective of his own wishes, he was putting the thing 
brutally. He did not want to persuade her against her 
own will, nor even indirectly to bring his influence to bear 
on her decision ; he wanted her to "act on the impulse of 
her own feelings, to take the course towards which her 
mind instinctively turned in this time of need ; but it was 
not necessary to frighten and repel her by his abruptness. 

He did not feel called upon to speak to her of her friends 
and their probable wishes, nor yet of the difference in hab- 
its and circumstances which would have divided him from 
her in ordinary times. These he knew, or could guess at; 
but the crisis of her fate seemed to carry her beyond their 
influence now. The question for settlement at the mo- 
ment appeared to be a simple one, and its answer depended 
entirely on her own feelings ; there was no need, then, to 
perplex her with extraneous considerations which were no 
longer weighty enough to carry decision. He must try to 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


81 


understand what she thought and wished; if she seemed 
satisfied with the proposition he was about to make, her 
best chance of life and happiness would rest in his hands, 
and he would make the most of it for her. If, on the other 
hand, she shrank from the idea and was horrified — as seemed 
to him very possible — their separation would be an easy 
and simple matter at once ; she would make no more pro- 
test against it. 

He began again, more gently, 

“You do not like to go to England alone ?” 

“ I am afraid,” she repeated ; “ it is a long way. I know 
no one. I am not used to being alone.” 

“ I should like to go with you, to take care of you, to 
look after you better a great deal than I have done so 
far. I should like to take you back to your friends well 
and happy.” 

She raised herself eagerly on her elbow and looked at 
him. 

“Then why can’t you? Is it business — that dreadful 
thing that gentlemen always talk about when they won’t 
do the things you want ? But they can make it give way, 
can’t they, when they want to do the things themselves ?” 

“ Is that it ?” he asked, with a little smile. “ Perhaps 
it is. Then I want to go to England with you very much, 
and can make the business wait. I should like you to be 
my first business, my best interest — you are that last al- 
ready — but there is only one way, and you would not like 
it.” 

“ How ? I ? Why not ?” 

He was growing more excited every moment. He 
watched her with eagerness, trying to take in all the in- 
dications she gave in her unconsciousness. 

“ There is one way — if you will go as my wife !” 

“Oh!” She leaned back on the couch and looked at 
him with a sudden wonder. 

“If you are angry and wish me to leave you,” he said, 
gently, “ I will go away without another word.” 

“No! Wait.” 

She leaned back, looking at him with a continued won- 
der, modified by a growing eagerness, as of awakened ex- 

6 


82 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


pectation. He had watched her keenly, but he had per- 
ceived no shrinking movement, nothing that signified in- 
stinctive reluctance to this strange idea, however much 
she might have been taken by surprise. 

“ I didn’t know — I never thought of that,” she murmur- 
ed, breathlessly. 

“I know you didn’t; but it seems to me the only way.” 

“And you would take me to England?” 

“ I would take you wherever you wished.” 

“ Then in that way you wolild take care of me always?” 
she went on, as if speaking to herself. 

“ If it would satisfy you.” 

“And you — would you like it ?” she asked, with a quick 
flush and glance at him, as if a new light dawned upon 
her. 

He put his hand on hers, clasping it closely. He had 
not touched her before, and now it amazed her to feel 
how his fingers trembled — those fingers which had been 
steady and strong to help her in time of need. 

She looked into his eyes, which met hers with the ten- 
der assurance of a love and kindness beyond her under- 
standing, and what she saw satisfied her. 

“ I think,” she said, softly, “ that way would do.” 

So with clasped hands, but without any kiss, the con- 
tract between them was sealed. 


CHAPTER Y. 

ALONE TOGETHER. 

In the necessary interval which elapsed between this 
sudden betrothal and the strange marriage following it, 
Henry Dilworth did not act the part of an ideal lover in 
romance ; he did not even fill the position so completely 
as Jack Langford had done. But Agnes liked him all the 
better for this. She was never startled into a perception 
of the newness of her situation, its difference from any in 
which she had ever been before. Compliments were as 
absent as caresses from his intercourse with her. He gave 
abundant proofs of thoughtful care, but of passionate ea- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


83 


gerness none. It is true that he arranged for the marriage 
to take place at the earliest time possible. “ If it is to be, 
the sooner the better,” was a somewhat enigmatical re- 
mark which he made on the point. But she accepted in 
perfect faith every arrangement which he declared to be 
good, instinctively feeling that her interest was consider- 
ed in all he did more than his own. With her sensitive 
nature, shrinking from slight or indifference, demanding 
always more than it gave, she would have detected the 
first hidden touch of selfishness in his conduct. She was 
safer than, in her simple confidence, she seemed to be — a 
false note in his kindness, too much flattery, too little con- 
sideration, would have shocked her at once. It would not 
have been easy to deceive her with an apparent generosi- 
ty; her own selfishness, sweetly hidden as it was from 
herself and all the world under her gentleness and timidi- 
ty, was the touchstone with which she tested others, and 
by which she knew Henry Dilworth to be altogether good 
and true. 

He asked her for no assurance of love; perhaps he 
hardly conceived that she could give to him a stronger 
feeling than that of clinging confidence, and of that con- 
fidence he was receiving the most perfect proof. He felt 
that for her this marriage was only a desperate remedy, 
adopted in the absence of all others. Until it was actual- 
ly over he would leave her memory as free as he would 
have left her heart; so that if at the last moment he could 
have given her back to her friends as Agnes Leake, and 
she had chosen to be so given, her past with him would 
not have left even the recollection of a kiss as a claim or 
a taint on her future. 

Agnes was content with this novel sort of betrothal, 
and the marriage which followed so quickly came to her 
in the way best suited to her nature; it was the sealing of 
a bond already involuntarily made, the rectification of an 
intimacy which had become the principal need of her life. 

In ordinary circumstances she would probably have 
passed from girlhood to womanhood without feeling her 
heart touched by any one outside her family circle ; she 
might have married, as an after-thought, when her first 


84 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


youth was over, and the old ties were thinning around 
her; but home attachments were the most natural to her, 
those which had existed from childhood and never known 
a beginning, nor needed any ceremonial confirmation. So 
long as these subsisted uninjured she had felt no attrac- 
tion towards attachments that were new and startling. 
'Now, however, she was alone, her family far away, and 
for some months past Henry Dilworth had been the best 
substitute she could find for brothers and sisters. It would 
have been strange to part with him at this moment ; it 
was much less strange to agree to his proposition and be- 
come his wife. 

The whole affair was very quiet and unexciting. When, 
indeed, Henry Dilworth took his wife into his arms for 
the first time and kissed her, knowing that she was actu- 
ally his own, she was a little surprised at the passionate 
tenderness which he showed ; but she only flushed and 
smiled, and was pleased to think that he loved her so 
much, for that would make it all nice and easy in the fut- 
ure. He would never be unkind, never seem indifferent, 
never do the things she did not wish, after the fashion of 
some husbands that she knew. 

She was so bright and happy in the renewed conscious- 
ness of “belonging” to somebody, of being no more a 
solitary wanderer on the face of the earth, that Henry 
Dilworth marvelled as much as he rejoiced at the success 
of his experiment. She was a mixture of qualities strange 
to his experience, now that they unfolded themselves, like 
shut flowers after rain expanding in the sunshine of hope. 
She was so exacting and yet so obedient, so tender and 
yet — but this he never said to himself or any other — so 
selfish. 

One of the first things which she did after her marriage 
was to give back to Henry Dilworth the money which he 
had made her take that first evening on shore. 

“Now you will buy everything,” she said, triumphant- 
ly. “I needn’t be afraid of losing my purse any more.” 

This action was significant of her theory of life ; to 
casual observers it would have seemed a beautiful exam- 
ple of disinterested confidence ; but its meaning was not 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


85 


so simple as this. The partnership into which she entered 
signified, from her point of view, an abandonment of all 
difficult things in life to her husband’s care : therefore it 
was that she began at once to hand over everything trou- 
blesome to him, including even money. She would have 
the things that money could buy, but not the responsibil- 
ity of paying for them. She understood, indeed, that she 
must demand within certain limits, but those limits did 
not exclude the sacrifice of his own comfort and inclina- 
tions to hers. She had married him in order to secure 
for her own benefit his generous qualities and capable 
service, and both husband and wife acted upon this foun- 
dation as distinctly as if it had been stated in the Mar- 
riage Service, though both of them would have refused 
with indignation to acknowledge it. 

Agnes felt her new rights strongly and pleasantly from 
the very beginning. On the afternoon of her wedding- 
day she begged to be taken for a drive, and she looked at 
the world with reassured eyes as she sat beside her hus- 
band, confident that her weakness and timidity were no 
longer of any consequence, since his strength and courage 
were sealed to her service. 

His devotion to her wishes at this moment, his intense 
sympathy, his close attention to all her wants, made her 
feel how much his kindest kindness had hitherto failed to 
supply the demands of her nature. Confidential intimacy 
with some one who belonged to her was essential to her 
peace of mind ; therefore the disappearance of all reserve 
affected her mood as sunshine affects the wings of a but- 
terfly : she was impelled to happy movement and joyous 
life. Her new experience was all the more agreeable to 
her, because her husband was not — except in the first mo- 
ment — passionately demonstrative in his affection; she 
was used to continual tenderness, but to no superabun- 
dance of caresses; and now she was quite happy and at 
rest in Henry Dilworth’s company. 

When she came back from her drive, tired but not out 
of spirits, and lay down on the couch to rest, he sat beside 
her and put his arm under her head, and so she fell asleep 
like a weary child, the fretfulness gone out of her look ; 


86 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


for she seemed to have put away again the cares of life, 
to feel satisfied that he would take her home and do all 
she wanted, without ever troubling to ask how or when. 

As he watched her then, he was at last carried away by 
thoughts and hopes for himself. Her happiness was his 
own, and to think of her life was to think of his. Her 
sweetness and tender confidence seemed to him very beau- 
tiful — things beyond his right to possess, but which could 
not fail to idealize his life and make it a higher thing than 
he had ever dreamed of. His past, as he looked back 
upon it, seemed prosaic in comparison with the present ; 
it had unfolded only the possibilities of his own nature; 
now that nature would be enlarged and ennobled by con- 
tact with one of a finer type. It seemed to him that he 
could not fail to lead a better life because Agnes loved 
him. 

And he thought at that moment that it was altogether 
in his power to make her happy. She had brought for- 
ward no claim so far which he had not been able instant- 
ly to satisfy ; and he could not imagine that any mere 
difference of station, anything in past education or old 
habits, could be sufficiently important to divide them now. 
His love satisfied her here : it did not occur to him that 
it might fail to do so in the home he would make for her. 
So far she missed nothing, felt no want in his company ; 
and his hopes seemed justified as the days went on, for 
her happy sense of rest in his care increased rather than 
diminished. 

They did not leave for England by the next vessel 
which sailed ; the accommodation was not very satisfac- 
tory on board this particular ship, and Henry Dilworth 
thought the rest on shore was doing his wife good under 
the present happier conditions. She would be all the 
stronger for the voyage after waiting a little. She had 
ceased to show impatience for that home which she now 
felt confident of reaching ; she was well enough to amuse 
herself by a little sight-seeing, and she spent a good deal 
of Henry Dilworth’^ money without seeming to be aware 
of it. 

He was glad to think that he could afford to be some- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


87 


what lavish on her behalf ; it seemed to him as natural 
to spend money for her as to leave it unspent himself. 
Whatever, therefore, he did in the company of his wife, 
was done in the most comfortable and even luxurious 
manner. Her health demanded it, her habits led her to 
expect it. But when he was alone he returned to his old 
ways, and it made Agnes open her eyes with astonish- 
ment to discover how economical he was on his own be- 
half. 

“ But why should you do so ?” she asked ; for she had 
happily concluded — as she concluded many things which 
it was pleasant to believe in the absence of evidence — 
that he was not short of money ; and he had fortunately 
no reason to interfere with her conclusions. 

“ Why should I do differently when I am alone?” he re- 
plied. ‘‘This is the way I am used to.” 

This answer perplexed her a little. 

“Perhaps it wouldn’t matter if I didn’t know,” she 
said, meditatively; “but I don’t like to think of it; and 
then ” — adding this as a happy thought — “ other people 
don’t do it.” 

“What other people? More people do my way than 
yours, dear child ; for more people are poor than rich.” 

“ But it’s because they can’t help it ; they change as 
soon as ever they can. And even if you used to do it, 
that’s no reason why you should go on now. People al- 
ways make a great difference when they marry ! That’s 
why it costs so much. They spend a great deal more 
money than they did before — even on themselves.” 

“Do they, indeed?” he answered, with a smile of some 
amusement, such as that with which we listen to a child’s 
pretty prattle on subjects beyond its understanding. 
“ What wonderful things in social economy you will 
teach me in time!” 

There was another thing on which she commented with 
some doubtfulness, and that was her husband’s letter to 
her sister Susie. They both wrote to England by that ves- 
sel in which they- did not sail, sending news of the safety 
of Agnes and of her marriage. 

Henry Dilworth’s letter was not, however, w T holly sat- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


isfactory to his wife. She looked at the letter, and then 
at him, with an odd expression of perplexity. 

“ They won’t know what you’re like when they read it,” 
she said ; “ you are not like that” but she did not specify 
what “,that” might mean. 

“ I’ve said all that is necessary, I think,” he answered ; 
“ your letter tells the rest.” 

“ Oh yes, it’s all right,” she said, slowly. 

Then she smiled in his face, and observed, “They will 
be sure to know that I shouldn’t have married you if you 
hadn’t been nice” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THOSE AT HOME. 

Very reluctantly had Miss Leake and her sisters given 
up all hope of seeing Agnes again, and hearing of the 
safety of Kate. It was only when the ship /Swan had 
been reported missing for several months that the house- 
hold at “ The Stepping-stones ” changed those sober col- 
ors, which they had worn during the period of doubt and 
anxiety, for a dress of actual mourning. 

This unexpected calamity was a terrible blow to Miss 
Leake; her outlook in life seemed to be suddenly taken 
from her ; she had nothing further to arrange or to plan. 
The small domestic circle from which she sent out her 
forces into the social world lost its reason for existence, 
and her own position, in the background though it had 
always been, was now deprived of its reality. 

What she suffered during that time no one knew, for 
she carried a brave face before her little world, and spoke 
to her clergyman of resignation, and of chastening afflic- 
tions. Nevertheless it perplexed her that she should have 
been thus chosen as a subject for this sort of “ dispensa- 
tion.” Had she not done her duty? was she not herself 
no despicable servant? and had she not carefully brought 
up her younger sisters as a credit both to society and re- 
ligion? It was well for those households who stumbled 
stupidly on in a confusion of morals and a negligence of 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


manners to be thus occasionally humiliated ; hut for her 
household, so decorous, so orderly, so dutiful, to be thus 
devastated was a thing beyond her comprehension. She 
was capable of arguing with Providence, after a manner 
not unknown to the ancient heroes of the Jews, and of 
asking if divine justice was not held up to contempt by 
her own unmerited chastisement, if the enemies of the 
good might not reasonably triumph at this undoing of all 
her plans. But the simplicity of the patriarchal time has 
long passed away ; courage and conceit have adopted mod- 
ified forms since Jacob made his imperious bargains, and 
David argumentatively put forward his own merits for his 
Creator’s notice. 

“ Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth ” was the text 
with which Miss Leake faced the world ; but secretly she 
felt that, if this were love, she was just as well without 
it. Her sister Ellen ventured to suggest that perhaps 
they had been worldly, and this was a punishment ; but 
Miss Leake scoffed at the idea, as insulting to divine in- 
telligence. She had done her duty and taken care of her 
family — no more than that ; and if she had been mistaken, 
must her young sisters be sacrificed for her fault ? Her 
sorrow was tinged with bitterness, but with no humility 
or regret ; she looked merely with a little tinge of con- 
cealed contempt upon her clergyman as an official of a 
system which neglected its duties and abandoned its serv- 
ants in a manner calculated to bring disgrace on any 
worldly and fallible one ! “ They have been taken per- 

haps from the evil to come,” the vicar remarked, using 
the comforting formula which had been provided for him 
to bring forward on such occasions, and Miss Leake an- 
swered, with grim politeness, “Very true.” 

They had been taken from the world where the higher 
powers broke their contracts as freely as the lower, and 
religion was a thing as shifting and uncertain as com- 
merce. So she interpreted his comforting observation. 
Providence, she felt, was unreliable and constantly need- 
ing special explanation after the event ; the survivors in 
a catastrophe generally extolled the wisdom of its selec- 
tions, and the others could say nothing ; but she, a suffer- 


90 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


er on this occasion, perceived no wisdom and no design 
in its management. The trouble which had fallen upon 
her seemed to her the result of carelessness or indiffer- 
ence: she had a feeling as if some one had broken faith 
with her ; but she was too proud, rather than too timid, 
to say so. 

It was perhaps with renewed anguish and indignation 
that she read in the morning paper the startling announce- 
ment of the survival and rescue of some of the crew of 
the lost ship, and of two passengers, “ Mr. and Mrs. Dil- 
worth.” Had any woman been saved, and not her sister? 
This was a hard and bitter thing indeed. Ellen was, on 
the other hand, softened and saddened. It was “ myste- 
rious,” she pronounced — “ wonderful and the more she 
failed to understand the divine intentions, the more rev- 
erentially she endeavored to conciliate them. If religion 
was not that institution for the encouragement of respect- 
able families, and Providence that power delegated for 
their protection, which they appeared to her sister Susie 
to be, there was all the more reason to study their special 
requirements: frequent attendance at early services, care- 
ful fulfilment of ordinances, and carrying out of genuflec- 
tions, might after all be the true road to divine favor. 

The life of a courtier, who neglects essential service for 
ceremonial observances, may be followed .also as a relig- 
ious career, and Ellen began to devote herself to it. 

But one morning, not long after that announcement had 
been seen in the newspapers, there lay on the table at “ The 
Stepping - stones ” a letter in a handwriting which Miss 
Leake had despaired of ever seeing again. 

She looked at it as if it might be a messenger from an- 
other world, and she could hardly find courage to open it. 
She broke the cover at last, and turned at once to the sig- 
nature. It was in the same well-known handwriting, and 
she read there “Your loving sister, 

“ Agnes Dilworth.” 

The light of a reasonable hope began to grow in her 
mind, to flush her pale cheeks, and to tremble in her hands. 
She looked at the date and at the writing, at the enclosure 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


91 


in another handwriting, signed “Henry Dilworth,” and 
she began to understand. For was not Dilworth the name 
of the passengers who had been announced as saved ? 

“Anna! Ellen!” she said, speaking to her sisters, “Ag- 
nes is alive; this is her letter.” And when once she had 
said it, it became a real thing to her ; she turned greedily 
back to the precious paper in her hand for further ex- 
planations. 

“Dear Susie, dear Sisters, — I am alive; I am com- 
ing home. Do not ask me about Kate or Jack; they are 
drowned with the others. I should have been drowned 
too, but for Mr. Dilworth ; and I should have died after- 
wards, but for him. He has saved me and taken care of 
me, and now he has married me, and is bringing me home. 

“ It will be good to see you all again, and the old place. 
I have been very ill. It was so dreadful on the island! 
I will tell you all about it some time. I am not well now, 
but Mr. Dilworth takes care of me. He said it was best 
for us to marry, and then he could bring me home. I 
never could have got back without him, I know; and oh, 
how nice it will be to be in Elmdale again ! Mr. Dil- 
worth is very good and very clever. You will like him: 
Jack did. There is so much to say that I cannot write 
any more. We are coming by the next ship: this is a 
poor one. 

“I send so very much love to you all. I know you 
never expected to see me again. 

“ Your loving sister, 

“Agnes Dilworth.” 

The tears ran down Miss Leake’s cheeks as she read 
the incoherent epistle. “Poor child! dear child!” she 
repeated to herself ; and then, with a pause of wonder, 
“She is married!” 

She took up Henry Dilworth’s letter, and read that also. 

“Madam, — Your sister has informed you of our mar- 
riage and of the reasons for it. I hope that they will not 
seem insufficient when you understand them fully. If 


92 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


she has not been able to consult her friends in the choice 
she has made, the strange circumstances which threw us 
together must be the explanation. 

“ I beg you to believe that I would not have persuaded 
her to take any step which I considered contrary to her 
welfare; the desolate position in which she found herself 
made friendly protection, and the care of one who be- 
longed to her, almost a necessity. It is my hope and de- 
sire to restore her safely to you. If I can do so, my action 
in connecting her life with mine will have its sufficient 
excuse. 

“ I am, madam, very respectfully yours, 

“ Henry Dilworth.” 

This was the letter at which Agnes had arched her eye- 
brows in surprise; and Miss Leake studied it now in doubt 
and perplexity. 

“It is very formal,” she said; “is it a gentlemans let- 
ter ?” 

She repeated this question to her brother Robert when 
he came over to Elmdale, on the receipt of the happy 
news, and he answered, “It isn’t easy to say. Many men 
write letters quite unlike themselves. We must wait and 
see.” 

“Agnes is so ignorant of the world,” Miss Leake ob- 
served ; “ we cannot tell what he may be like. She doesn’t 
say what he is.” 

“It seems that we have to thank him for having her 
back at all. Agnes says he saved her life, and therefore 
I believe he did. Agnes has been brought up to expect 
a good deal from the world, and she isn’t given to exag- 
gerating benefits conferred on her.” 

“ Agnes is very affectionate, and full of feeling,” Miss 
Leake said. 

“Yes, for those who do everything for her. If she is 
grateful to Mr. Dilworth, I think we may consider that 
we have reason to be grateful too; let us make objections 
only when we find we cannot help it.” 

“ That is quite true, and very wise,” Miss Leake ob- 
served ; but she found her chief comfort in the careless 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


93 


remark of Agnes, “You will like him : Jack did.” She 
translated this simple phrase into a statement that Mr. 
Dilworth had been a friend of Mr. Langford’s, and she 
announced the supposed fact freely to her acquaintances. 
Mr. Dilworth was a fellow-passenger, a friend of her broth- 
er-in-law’s ; he had saved her sister’s life, taken care of 
her, and married her. It was a romantic history. They 
were full of gratitude to Mr. Dilworth, and anxious to 
make his acquaintance. So she told all her friends, with 
the courage of necessity; and she tried to hope that facts 
would never contradict her apparent satisfaction. In her 
inmost heart she felt that at least she would have Agnes 
back again, and she must make the best of any disappoint- 
ing circumstances which she brought with her. Agnes 
had been more her child than any of the others; she could 
not realize that any man should have a superior authority 
over her, much less a man to whom she had never volun- 
tarily delegated her power. She must wait to see wheth- 
er he was fit for the happy position which a strange fort- 
une had bestowed on him. 


CHAPTER VII. 

IN THE OLD NEST. 

The first part of the voyage to England was a happy 
time for Henry Dilworth and his w r ife. Agnes was full 
of joy at the thought of seeing her home again, and yet 
she felt no impatience to reach it. The close attendance 
of her husband, and the kindness of all about her, made 
a satisfactory present, from which it was pleasant to look 
forward to a delightful future. 

Henry Dilworth was regarded as somewhat of a hero 
by those around her, who knew the story of the wreck, 
and Agnes was proud of belonging to him — proud also of 
her power over him. Then she had the pleasure of per- 
ceiving that he actually looked up to her and deferred to 
her judgment in many particulars, and this was a novelty 
to her. At this time they were, indeed, completely satis- 
fied with each other and with their marriage. She per- 


94 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


ceived no faults in his manners, except such as she could 
laugh at, and he found nothing wanting in her affection 
for him. 

But bad weather brought a return of illness, and Agnes 
landed in England in a weak condition. The railway 
journey was delayed for a couple of days to give her rest- 
ing-time where they first went ashore ; and when at last 
the travellers reached the station nearest to Elmdale, no 
• one was there to meet them ; an empty carriage only had 
been sent at Henry Dilworth’s request, for he was anxious 
to save his wife from all excitement until she should be 
actually at home, where she could rest and recover her 
strength. 

Her first entrance to the familiar valley was, therefore, 
made in his company alone ; his hands clasped hers ca- 
ressingly, and he watched the changes in her face instead 
of the scenes through which they drove. She thought 
herself a happy woman to be returning in his care, and 
the pleasure of the moment was not spoiled by any doubt 
about his complete satisfactoriness. 

As they drove along the lanes they met a couple of 
equestrians, who recognized Agnes as they passed by; and 
the impression produced on these old acquaintances was 
in one respect just what Agnes expected. 

“ That was Agnes Leake, I declare,” one of them said 
to the other, “ and her husband, I suppose. What a very 
handsome man ! I wonder who he is ? no one seems to 
know.” 

But Agnes only imagined the admiration, not the sus- 
picious curiosity. 

When at last “The Stepping-stones” was reached, and 
Henry Dilworth carried his wife into the little drawing- 
room she knew so well, there was no thought on the part 
of those awaiting her of formal introduction, or of criti- 
' cising observation, with regard to the stranger who came 
as her husband. There was for a moment only a tumult 
of welcome, of wonder, of incredulous delight, of pitying 
anxiety. 

Agnes was kissed, caressed, and compassionated, while 
she clung to her husband’s hand — her safeguard and ref- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


95 


uge in this storm of excitement, as it had been in real dan- 
gers — and smiled at her sisters, and cried a little and 
laughed a good deal. 

Then her husband interfered with quiet authority, and 
begged that she might go to her own room and rest. 
Miss Leake looked at him with a desire to be just, and a 
conscientious anxiety not to feel unfriendly. It was hard 
to recognize at this moment his superior claim on her 
darling, to acknowledge that he could give the best help 
and had the best right to give it. 

But she yielded without hesitation. It was evident 
that Agnes had learned to rely upon him, and that she 
was happy in his care. Therefore Miss Leake carried out 
his suggestions with that self-effacing obedience which is 
characteristic of competency when it waves its authority 
for a time. She had expected that her own personal at- 
tendance would be required by the invalid ; she could 
nurse her sister so much better than Mr. Dilworth, “ a 
man,” as she would have contemptuously said ; but Agnes 
had so long been dependent upon her husband for every 
sort of care, that it was evident he could best give it to 
her now. Any alteration in her habits would be disturb- 
ing and exciting ; her husband’s presence seemed neces- 
sary to her rest ; the sound of his voice seemed to impel 
her to quietness and obedience. 

So, for the first time in her life, Miss Leake found her- 
self shut out of her sister’s sick-room, for the first time 
knew that her presence was not necessary, was actually 
troublesome ; she was compelled to perceive that some 
one else more than filled her place, and was helpful to 
Agnes in a degree which she had never reached. 

She said to herself with some impatience that it was the 
extravagant affection of newly-married people which made 
the difference, and she waited for her turn to come again, 
waited and watched ready for her opportunity. She did 
not know that there was something in the larger and 
more generous nature of Henry Dilworth which was at 
the same time soothing and inspiriting to his wife. Ag- 
nes did not understand it herself, but through her hus- 
band’s mind she had glimpses of the world and of life 


96 


IN SHALLOW' WATERS. 


from a higher point of view than had been open to her in 
the household at “The Stepping-stones.” She perceived 
dimly that her husband’s goodness to her did not arise 
from her own intrinsic importance, but from his large 
generosity. It seemed possible at this time that her love 
of him might lift her easily into a higher atmosphere, 
and that her disposition to yield quietly to protective in- 
fluences, and to take the tone of those around her, might 
lead her gently and unconsciously into a state of mind 
prepared for satisfaction with the life that he could give 
her. 

But Miss Leake waited, like one who has yielded a 
property reluctantly, and who is ready to find a flaw in 
the title - deeds of the possessor. She made no foolish 
and futile protests, but she could not believe in the per- 
manency of her compulsory abdication. It seemed at 
this moment too complete to be natural. The marriage 
she had dreamed of for Agnes was not of this class. The 
husband she had imagined for her sister would have given 
to his wife an occupation and social importance, and he 
would have been master (of course) in his own house ; 
but he would not have supplanted her in that sister’s 
heart. Agnes would have still come to her for help and 
advice in the multitude of departments with which a man 
has nothing to do ; she might even have demanded her 
sympathy in troubles which a man cannot understand. 
But this marriage seemed to shut her altogether out of 
her sister’s life : Agnes looked at her, laughing, from the 
gates of Paradise, then closed the door and went inside. 

And was not this Paradise possibly vulgar, and a 
mistake? Had not her own influence gone because it 
was incompatible with the influence of Henry Dil worth? 
Had he not absorbed her share in the life of Agnes be- 
cause the young wife’s confidential trust could not be 
divided between her husband and her sister, because they 
belonged to different classes, and could not reign in the 
same sphere or the same life? 

The impression produced on the family circle by Henry 
Dil worth in the first hurried interview was that of a hand- 
some man, with quiet manners, rather oddly dressed. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


97 


But that might be explained by the absence of opportu- 
nity for getting good clothes after the shipwreck. He had 
been evidently absorbed in anxiety about his wife, and 
had thought of no one else at the moment. This was a 
point in his favor, but it had prevented the occurrence of 
opportunities for criticism. 

“ Poor child ! how ill she looks !” was the first natural 
exclamation of the sisters, when the Dilworths had disap- 
peared into their own room. 

Then some one said, suggestively, “A very fine-looking 
man !” 

“ I like his manner very much,” said Robert Leake, with 
decision. 

“Nothing could be kinder or more considerate,” said 
Miss Leake, with a little sigh. 

When Henry Dilworth came out of his wife’s room he 
found his sister - in - law hovering anxiously and silently 
about the landing. 

“ She is asleep now,” he said in a low voice ; “ perhaps 
you would like to go in and sit with her? I thought of 
turning out for a stroll if you would.” 

“ I shall be very glad ; but you must have some lunch.” 

“I would rather not; I want nothing. Just a turn or 
two outside before she wakes and then I’ll come back.” 

“ Then my brother will go with you ; he is waiting 
down-stairs to see you.” 

Miss Leake felt perhaps some desire that the family 
should not give up all charge of this new member of it 
until they had discovered what manner of man he might 
be. She was anxious to be politely attentive, and anxious 
also to join her young sister; therefore she was glad to 
hand Henry Dilworth over to the care of her brother. 
Her pretty little hall and old-fashioned staircase looked 
dwarfed in the presence of this man from the colonies, 
whose easy movements as well as his massive limbs gave an 
impression of out-door life. They were not without train- 
ing, certainly, but it was not a training which qualified 
him to feel at home in an elegantly furnished cottage 
residence, where maiden ladies lead an existence of mod- 
est but luxurious refinement. * 

7 


98 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Miss Leake felt that she would not quite know what to 
do with this brother-in-law of hers. There was a differ- 
ence between them, undoubtedly ; but it was not yet ob- 
vious who had the advantage in this difference. 

Henry Dilworth had already received an impression of 
being shut up in a gilded cage. The elaborateness of the 
decorations and the abundance of ornament in the low 
but pretty rooms subdued him with a sense of the neces- 
sity of very measured and careful movement. Also the 
presence of so many persons in a space already well occu- 
pied by the furniture, their eager attentions, the lavish 
caresses they had bestowed on Agnes, all so full of feel- 
ing, and yet under the control of some law which he did 
not quite understand, gave him the idea of being in a 
new world, where his standard of manners must be read- 
justed. He wanted to get out into the fresh air, to stretch 
his limbs and expand his thoughts under the free and uni- 
versal heaven. 

But he was not so to escape. The privilege of belong- 
ing to such a household as Miss Leake’s could not be held 
with impunity. He had not learned the passwords which 
would Have given him freedom of action in society, and 
he must consequently be contented to be held in close 
bondage. 

Robert Leake, his wife’s eldest brother, was waiting 
for him down-stairs ; not, indeed, with any idea of being 
a constraint upon him, but only wishing to show him 
politeness, and to learn something of himself and his posi- 
tion. 

“ Are you going out for a stroll ?” he said. “ I will go 
with you.” 

They, walked along the road together, and for a time 
neither spoke. Henry Dilworth had nothing to say ; he 
was inclined to be quiet and to take in new impressions. 

Robert Leake asked him a few questions concerning 
the day’s journey, which he answered briefly and to the 
point. 

When they reached a curve of the road and turned 
back towards the house (with a mutual feeling that they 
must be within call), Henry Dilworth looked at the river 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


99 


and the road with the cottage nestling back among the 
trees against the hill-side, and said, “ She has often de- 
scribed it to me.” 

It was the first spontaneous utterance of his own im- 
pressions he had made since his arrival, and Robert 
Leake looked at him with polite curiosity. 

“She was always a home bird. We must be grateful 
to you for bringing her back to the nest. She tells us 
that you did everything for her,” he remarked. 

“It was nothing. I could do no less.” 

“You saved her life, however. There is no doubt 
about that, I suppose?” and then he hesitated. “We 
were all surprised to hear of her marriage.” 

Henry Dilworth’s countenance changed at once from 
quiet contemplation to active attention. 

“It was a difficult question to decide,” he said; “she 
was absolutely alone, and very ill. I hope you will none 
of you feel that she was sacrificed.” 

“ We have certainly no reason to think so,” her brother 
answered, cordially. 

“There was no alternative of waiting and consulting 
her friends. If that had been possible the marriage itself 
would have seemed out of the question. She wanted help 
and care then? 

“I don’t quite understand. You mean that you mar- 
ried her — ” 

“ That I might be able to take care of her.” 

“ And for yourself, on your own account, you would not 
have thought of it ?” 

Henry Dilworth’s face flushed, and he met the half- 
withdrawn glance of the other with a full look. 

“ No, I should never have thought of it. I do not mean 
that your sister was not lovable. But I should not have 
presumed to love her, or at least to find out that I did.” 

“ I understand perfectly. You tried to decide accord- 
ing to her interest ?” 

“ I tried to do it. I hope you will none of you think 
that I made a mistake. I see that there is a difference be- 
tween us. Such differences never concerned me before. 
My life has had little to do with them, I have attended, 


100 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


to my work and not troubled about other things. But I 
see that there is a difference, and I remember now that 
her sister thought so. I did not notice it at the time — 
there was no need.” 

“ Her sister — Kate ?” 

“ Yes ; Mrs. Langford.” 

“ Kate was young, poor girl, and full of fancies. And 
Jack Langford ?” 

“ He was a very good friend of mine. I promised him 
to take care of his sister-in-law, just before the wreck took 
place, when it seemed probable.” 

Mr. Leake was silent for a time, meditating. At last he 
said, 

“ I should like to understand your feeling clearly. You 
mean that you are not of our class ?” 

“ My mother was a servant-girl before she married my 
father. He was a blacksmith.” 

“ You say was. Then they are not alive ?” 

“Ho. I haven’t any relations to introduce to my wife 
whom you wouldn’t like her to know. I am alone in the 
world.” 

“ Then, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Leake, cheerfully, “ I 
don’t see that it matters what you were so long as she 
is satisfied with what you are. She is only a girl, as 
Kate was, and full of fancies; so that she mightn’t have 
liked — In short, if you had had relatives not equal to 
yourself in education, and so on, they mightn’t have pulled 
together. But things are straightforward enough now. 
Money -matters are comparatively easy to settle ; they 
can always be arranged when a man has capacity. I am 
not anxious about that. We shall find something in time.” 

“ Do you mean that you suppose I am poor, or that I 
have no employment?” 

“ I don’t know, of course. But there’s my sister’s little 
fortune— not much, but enough to secure comfort to her 
for her lifetime. That would have been settled upon her 
in case of an ordinary marriage. I was thinking that per- 
haps you will consent for it to be done now?” 

“ By all means,” Henry Dilworth answered, quickly. 
“I didn’t know that she had anything ; she never told me. 


IK SHALLOW WATERS. 


101 


I should like to add something to it — whatever you think 
necessary,” he went on, with a flushed face. “ I am not 
poor; I have had more than I needed for many years, and 
money grows. I don’t want it myself, except that I should 
like to keep a thousand, or perhaps two, in reserve, to car- 
ry out some ideas, if necessary. But I could find from 
eight to ten thousand and do that still, without touching 
the sheep-farm. I must explain to you the investments.” 

“ I appreciate your generosity,” said Mr. Leake, warmly, 
and wondering more than ever at the unexpected sort of 
husband which his sweet young sister had brought home 
with her. “ My sister’s fortune is something like three 
hundred a year; if you could make that into five or six, 
we should feel that she was satisfactorily provided for.” 

They had approached the garden gate, and perceived 
the anxious face of Miss Leake looking out for them. 

“ Agnes is awake, and asking for you,” she said, almost 
reproachfully ; and Henry Dilworth went at once to his 
wife. 


CHAPTER VIIL 
DRIFTING ASUNDER. 

For the first few days the condition of Agnes was 
such as to fill her friends with anxiety, and to demand 
the closest attention of her husband. If she awoke in his 
absence a bewildered look came into her face, and she 
broke into tears of vague alarm and distress. She had 
learned so completely to cling to him and rely on him in 
troubles past, that she never felt safe when he was out of 
her sight. 

Under these circumstances her family could regard 
him only with grateful consideration. His love was the 
link that seemed to keep this frail life still among them ; 
no one else knew how to soothe the invalid to rest, or to 
cheer her to animation. Yet, as he came and went in 
the little household, it was evident to the members of it 
that he was, though among them, not of them. 

The disorganized state of the usually regular establish- 


102 


m SHALLOW WATERS. 


ment permitted this fact to be ignored for a time, though 
it might bring embarrassment afterwards. All formal 
visiting was given up ; no one expected to be invited to 
meet the newly-married couple, and introductions to the 
husband only occurred casually. 

Even the neat little dinners, which Miss Leake loved to 
preside over at seven o’clock, were permitted to fall into 
abeyance, or at least Henry Dilworth’s attendance at 
them was not exacted. It was reasonable that he should 
take his meals with his wife if he preferred and she de- 
manded it, and so the most formal ceremonial of the 
day was avoided. Also, it was natural that he should 
wish to escape into the open air from the atmosphere of 
the sick-room whenever his wife did not need his pres- 
ence ; and so it came to pass that he was not compelled 
to spend many hours in the pretty drawing-room, where 
the lounges and easy -chairs were a discomfort to him, 
and the knickknacks a perplexity. For too much com- 
fort was a discomfort, too much luxury a trouble to a 
man of his simple habits. He had not learned to use del- 
icate appliances with unconscious care, and felt himself 
rough and out of place amid the carved chair legs and 
embroidered covers. 

Mr. Leake went in and out among these things without 
thought and without disaster ; they were an anxiety to 
his brother - in - law, and yet did not altogether escape 
damage at his hands or from his feet. 

“ Those dreadful boots !” Miss Leake observed with a 
sigh. “Agnes must really tell him to get lighter ones.” 

Although Henry Dilworth was so conscious of the 
dainty brightness of all things around him, he did not 
observe the havoc made therein by his own carelessness. 
He was not untidy, but he was accustomed to work with 
few materials, and to have these always at hand. He had 
never kept the working part of life in the background in 
favor of the ornamental and recreational, and his personal 
possessions, few as they were, were not of the most ele- 
gant sort. 

Miss Leake was detected by her brother gazing in mel- 
ancholy fashion at a very rough overcoat, a clumsy um- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


103 


brella, and a rude sort of fishing - basket, which encum- 
bered the furniture of the hall. 

“We have Agnes back again,” said Robert Leake, with 
a smile, “but she has brought a few trials with her.” 

“ This is such a small house,” sighed Miss Leake, “ and 
we have to be so particular about what we keep in it, if 
it is to look nice. If the place were larger it would not 
matter so much.” 

Henry Dilworth very soon took a hint that was given 
to him not to smoke all over the house, and retired with 
his pipe to the diminutive library or breakfast - room, 
where he pored over some volumes which he had sent for 
from London. Even this use of the least important sit- 
ting-room was a concession on the part of Miss Leake. 
Her brothers were not great smokers, and willingly took 
their cigars out-of-doors when staying at “ The Stepping- 
stones.” 

Agnes knew this well, and when she found her husband 
studying prints of birds with a strong smell of tobacco in 
the air, she expressed her amazement. 

“You must be in favor with Susie, if she lets you smoke 
here,” she said. “ Robert and Charlie always have to go 
out with their cigars.” 

“ I won’t do it again,” said Henry Dilworth. “ I am glad 
you told me.” 

But when Miss Leake found that he had been spoken 
to on the subject, she remonstrated with her sister. 

“We mu§t do nothing that will interfere with his com- 
fort and make him feel that he is not at home here,” she 
said, conscientiously. 

Agnes recovered by degrees, and was able after a time 
to take something like her old place in the household; 
then a new consciousness awoke in her. She was aware at 
first of a lack of the old ease and comfort in the domes- 
tic relations at “The Stepping-stones;” there was in the 
atmosphere a certain dissatisfaction and criticism which 
had not existed before she left home ; it took her some 
time to understand that there was something in the man- 
ners of her husband not quite congenial to her sisters, 
that there was something in the life he led not quite con- 


104 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


genial to himself, but as soon as she understood she tried 
to put the whole matter right. 

She began by suggesting to him various little altera- 
tions. “ Why don’t you do so and so ?” or, “ Didn’t you 
know that you ought to have acted in such a way ?” 

He tried to please her, but the result was a failure ; 
and she began to look wistfully at her sisters, and to say 
of him, apologetically, “ He is so clever and so good, but 
he has not been used to this sort of life.” 

So she fell away from her first grateful admiration of 
him ; and such a falling away could only be the begin- 
ning of a disastrous end. 

Robert Leake had been favorably impressed by his 
brother-in-law, and had spoken well of him to Miss Leake 
after their first interview, when she anxiously asked his 
opinion. 

“ I think him a very fine fellow ; and I think Agnes 
may be a happy woman if she knows how to appreciate 
him and make the best of him ; but I doubt whether she’s 
got it in her, in which case I’m sorry for both.” 

“ I am sure Agnes will make a good wife,” Miss Leake 
protested; “she is most affectionate and docile.” 

“Yes, when things are to her liking. Oh, you need not 
tell me that she’s a good girl, according to her lights ; 
but I doubt whether she understands the sort of man 
she’s married.” 

“ Why should she understand ? I don’t see that it’s de- 
sirable for her to enter into the kind of life b»e may have 
led.” 

“ When married people don’t understand one another, 
there has to be a sacrifice somewhere, you know.” 

Miss Leake did not deny this. She was only deter- 
mined that the sacrifice should not be on the side of Ag- 
nes. She said as much. 

“ Well, it’s not my affair,” said her brother. “ He’s old 
enough to look after himself, and he’s walked into the 
difficulty with his eyes open. It’s my opinion that he 
knew whkt he was doing better than she did, and that 
he’s prepared to go through with it.” 

“ Of course; he ought to be.” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


105 


“Ah, but Agnes, you know, isn’t. She never did, and 
she never will do anything to make herself seriously un- 
comfortable.” 

“ It wouldn’t be right to ask her,” said Susie, indig- 
nantly. 

Robert Leake only lifted his eyebrows, and wondered 
whether the life of this strong and original man must for- 
ever be stranded in the shallow waters of his pretty sis- 
ter’s chosen pool of existence. But it was not, as he said, 
his affair; he had only to look after his sister’s pecuniary 
interests and to leave the rest to shape itself. Neverthe- 
less, when he got some idea of how circumstances were 
progressing, in a later visit to “ The Stepping-stones,” he 
remonstrated with Susie. 

“ You’re all making a mistake,” he said ; “you must 
take him as he is, and you will perhaps find him some- 
thing to be proud of after all. But you’ll never make a 
fine gentleman of him.” 

“We don’t wish to do,” Miss Leake replied, with digni- 
ty; “but a little conformity to social usages is surely nec- 
essary.” 

“I wouldn’t keep him here. The life’s not fit for him. 
He wants a bigger world to move in. The people here 
are too small, too provincial, not intelligent enough to do 
him justice. They see only his bad manners.” 

“Not intelligent enough ! too provincial !” Miss Leake 
repeated, and did not attempt to say more. 

Robert Leake, however, gave his brother-in-law a hint 
that he might take his wife to the sea-side to aid her con- 
valescence, and his idea was seized with eagerness by 
Henry Dilworth. When it was first mentioned to Agnes, 
it seemed to please her also. But afterwards, when she 
had spoken on the subject to Miss Leake, her tone changed 
altogether. 

“Susie says we ought not to think of it. I might be 
taken ill again. I ought not to leave home.” 

“ Is this your home, dear child ?” he asked, looking into 
her eyes. 

It was the first time that he had asked such a question, 
and her face flushed. 


106 


IK SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ I have no other,” she said. 

“ I must make you one,” was his answer. 

For “ The Stepping-stones,” if a home to her, was none to 
him; and his active spirit was beginning to fret against 
the restraints put upon it there, although he led his own 
life as much as he could. The companionship of his wife 
was gradually being taken from him, his influence over 
her gradually declined, and he spent more and more of his 
time in the open air — fishing, walking, exploring the coun- 
try. He became a well-known figure in the district, and 
was as much at home among the hills as he was a stranger 
in the drawing-rooms of Elmdale. 

He had been induced to go to one dinner-party— sorely 
against his will — because Agnes had desired it. 

“They will be offended; they won’t understand if you 
refuse. Oh, you must go,” she had said, with such ear- 
nestness that he yielded. 

His compliance brought little satisfaction to any one, 
and he could never be induced to repeat the experiment. 
Even Miss Leake hardly desired that he should. She be- 
gan to describe him to her friends as eccentric; very clev- 
er, indeed, but like no one else, and wholly given up to 
scientific pursuits. 

Agnes still clung to the hope that he might be mitigat- 
ed and moderated into something more presentable. She 
began to take Miss Leake’s view, that a good husband is 
not entirely good unless he seems so to the world. She 
tried still to introduce little alterations into his habits and 
dress; and it was by the light of her loving anxiety that 
her sister’s disapproval was revealed to Henry Dilworth. 

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t be just like other peo- 
ple,” she said desperately, at last; “ you are so clever, and 
they are so silly; it must be easy to do like them.” 

“Is it advisable ?” he said, smiling. “You haven’t put 
it temptingly.” 

“But you know what I mean; you are too clever not 
to do,” she said, petulantly. 

“ I am afraid I do, dear,” he answered, taking her hands 
gently and looking into her face. “I am afraid you mean 
that you are a little ashamed of me.” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


107 


“ Oh, Henry, no ; not that. Why should I be ? You 
are better than any of them. But they don’t understand, 
and I want them to.” 

“ Isn’t it enough if you understand ? Can’t we live our 
lives and never mind them ?” 

“ But this is my life,” upon which he let her hands go 
and turned away. 

Gradually her reliance upon him, her submission to his 
judgment, had been slipping away. Her sisters had, very 
gradually and unobtrusively, taken their old place with 
her, and cured her of that absolute dependence on her 
husband which had made the basis of her love and mar- 
riage. 

Susie was always anxious to save Mr. Dilworth “ trou- 
ble,” to take the care of his wife off his hands, and to 
leave him free for other occupations. Her kindness was 
a gradual usurpation, and yet was so cleverly masked that 
Henry Dilworth himself scarcely knew what she was do- 
ing until the thing was done. 

Then he discovered that his wife had hardly any more 
need of him; that her life was complete without him, and 
that, indeed, there was little room left for him in it. Her 
sisters had, with mistaken kindliness, taught her to appre- 
ciate his merits all over again on a new foundation; and 
her old estimate of him seemed to be changed for another 
and very different one. 

“ He is so original,” they would say. “ Of course a 
man like that must follow his own pursuits. It wouldn’t 
be right for you to expect him to be a great deal with 
you. It would be a waste of talent.” 

So Agnes was tutored gradually to let him alone, and 
to go back to her old amusements without him. She 
drove out with her sisters, she made and received visits, 
and hardly wondered at her husband’s more frequent ab- 
sences and increasing abstraction in her presence. It was 
Miss Leake who made kindly efforts to be interested in 
his occupations, and who encouraged Agnes to bestow 
some attention on the results — a thing the young wife 
would not have dreamed of doing for herself. 

Miss Leake asked questions about the plants, butterflies, 


108 


IK SHALLOW WATERS. 


and geological specimens he discovered in his rambles, 
and declared that it was wonderfully interesting to hear 
of them. She turned them over in her fingers, pointed 
out to Agnes imaginary peculiarities, ignored really valu- 
able qualities, and apologized for the insignificance of the 
most valuable specimens. 

“ Oh yes, you’ll find a better than that, I dare say, if 
you go to the same place again ; you won’t throw it away, 
of course, till you do,” she said of a unique example, con- 
cerning which he intended to write to a learned corre- 
spondent. 

Agnes tried to be interested in these things, as Susie 
told her to be, but she could not manage it. 

“They are very ugly, are they not?” she asked. “I 
suppose no one would care about them if they had not 
such long names ?” 

On the whole, Henry Dilworth preferred her own blank 
indifference ; it had been pleasanter than this sympathy 
of effort and ignorance. 

At last he said to her that he must go back to Austra- 
lia soon, if only for a short time, to arrange his affairs. 
Would she like to go with him? She seemed surprised, 
doubtful, and melancholy. Finally she said that she 
would “ask Susie.” 

“Must we not decide these things for ourselves now?” 
he demanded, gently. “ When people are married they 
need only consult each other.” 

“ But I don’t know what I should like,” Agnes objected. 

“ And Susie will tell you ?” he answered. 

“ Why shouldn’t she tell me if she knows ?” 

“ Don’t I know just as well ? Are my wishes and my 
opinions nothing to you ?” 

“ Your wishes are, of course. But you never would wish 
me to do what would make me ill ; and your opinion isn’t 
so good as Susie’s — about me, I mean. She knows just 
what I can do.” 

He said no more ; the force of his will was as nothing 
before these persistent waves of gentle selfishness, which 
seemed to yield sometimes, but always returned to what 
they were before. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


109 


He asked her once if she would like to settle in Eng- 
land, and she brightened at the idea. 

“There is such a pretty house to let in Long Valley, 
only a mile and a half away,” she said at once ; “we might 
take that.” 

“ I am afraid not. It is a villa residence and no more. 
There would he nothing for me to do there.” 

“You find enough to do now, don’t you? and it would 
he just the same.” 

The smile with which he answered her was destitute of 
cheerfulness. 

“Do you think this is a life for a man?” he asked. 

“ I don’t know what you want. What should you do?” 

“I might take a farm in an agricultural county, and 
work that; you would be near enough to visit your sisters 
occasionally ; and we should be happy together, should 
we not? I see so little of you now, Agnes.” 

“You could see more of me if you liked,” she objected, 
“ but you will never go out with me when I pay visits ; 
and you know I can’t walk far. I don’t see why you 
should want to take me away from my friends.” 

“Could we not be happy alone together, dear child?” 

“You might, because you don’t like society; but I have 
always been used to it ; and as for a farm , the idea is 
dreadful. I could never hear of it. If you must go away 
from Elmdale, where I have always been so happy, it 
would be best to go to London. Robert says you might 
get an appointment of some sort, he thinks.” 

“ Of what sort ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, but he does. He thinks you are 
clever enough, and he says that people in London are not 
so narrow as people in the country. They would not be 
so stupid ; they would appreciate you more, and we might 
go into society together.” 

He spoke no more of settling in England after that. 
He put the future away from his thoughts, and arranged 
only for the immediate present. 

Miss Leake, on the other hand, talked quite cheerfully 
of his return to Australia and to scientific explorations. 

“ It will be a trial to Agnes to lose you,” she said, “ but 


110 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


it is her duty to bear that. No good wife would be self- 
ish enough to keep you from such pursuits. I wish the 
dear girl were strong enough to go with you ; but we 
must take care of her in your absence.” 

Henry Dilworth occupied himself in his preparations. 
He had been quieter and more taciturn since that last 
discussion with his wife ; all his hopes of a return to their 
happy old relations had been based on a departure from 
Elmdale. For the sake of Agnes he had been willing to 
change his mode of life, and to settle quietly in her own 
country ; but it was evident that no sacrifice was sufficient 
which did not involve destruction of his self-respect as 
well as ambition. Therefore he gave up hoping for the 
home he had dreamed of in the first week of his married 
life. 

Soi’row had visited him beforetimes, and hardships of- 
ten ; neither had quelled his hopeful spirit. Now, for the 
first time in his life, the bitterness of personal hope dis- 
appointed and affection slighted entered into his soul and 
saddened it. The armor of his simplicity and straight- 
forward purpose had protected him hitherto from slight 
and humiliation ; he had removed the defence in the ar- 
dor of his love for Agnes, and he found himself wounded 
by the hand which he had permitted to disarm him. 

And Agnes herself was not satisfied, though she had 
chosen to throw in her lot with her sisters and to forsake 
her husband. 

As the time for his departure approached, her interest 
in visits and amusements declined. She followed him 
about with a wistful look in her eyes, and was indifferent 
to the attractions of Susie’s cheerful conversation. She 
would sit down and watch him sometimes as he wrote 
letters or turned over his portfolios and cases — and he 
was conscious of her presence ; but the time had gone by 
when they could fall into easy conversation together, or 
share their thoughts and anxieties without difficulty. 

She was even fretful, and anxious, as it were, for some 
one to find out her unhappiness, and comment upon it ; 
but no one did her the latter service. 

“Poor child! we must keep her spirits up as much as 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Ill 


we can until you are gone,” Miss Leake said to Henry 
Dilworth ; “ then she will get over her trouble.” 

Susie’s cordiality and kindness to her brother-in-law at 
this time were wonderful to see. She had fought a bat- 
tle in which she believed herself victorious, but she was 
anxious to persuade her opponent that there had been no 
struggle at all. She acted as if the household at “ The Step- 
ping-stones ” was all that she represented it to her friends 
— a sympathetic and harmonious family, where each mem- 
ber appreciated the others, and every step taken by any 
one was warmly applauded by all. 

“ Agnes is going nowhere at present,” she explained; 
“she gives all her time to her husband. They are de- 
voted to one another. But of course he must go back to 
carry on his discoveries in Australia. It is only the ill- 
ness of Agnes that could have kept him here so long. 
His life is a perfect sacrifice to science. Isn’t it strange 
that he should care for a simple little creature like Agnes ? 
for she never was clever, you know, like Kate.” (Kate’s 
talents, by-the-bye, had grown largely in her sister’s es- 
timation since her death.) “But it often is so with very 
clever men : they admire young girls who are simply 
sweet and intelligent.” 

“ And pretty,” her hearer suggested. 

“Yes, I suppose she is pretty ; people often tell me so ; 
but when you know her other good qualities so well, you 
don’t think of that. There never was a more gentle, af- 
fectionate, tractable creature anywhere.” 

Nevertheless, this sweet creature sometimes looked at 
her sister with eyes in which reproach mingled with ap- 
peal. She was not satisfied or happy ; but she did not 
know how to express her wants, she did not even know 
what she wanted ; she waited for Susie to tell her, and 
Susie kept silence discreetly. 

Henry Dilworth, meanwhile, felt that she had slipped 
out of his life altogether. She was very caressing, al- 
most anxiously affectionate at this time; but she had no 
hopes or plans in common with him. Sometimes, when 
he met her wistful and troubled look, he felt inclined to 
take her in his arms and beg her to follow him through 


112 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


the world, and trust to his care and love for her happi- 
ness and comfort. But he never did it ; a sense of the 
weakness of will which lay beneath all her 'tenderness 
of feeling subdued him to silence. Perhaps, if he had 
yielded to this impulse, the tenderness would have pre- 
vailed for a time, and she would have gone with him; 
but discontent and reproach might have followed, to 
break down and imbitter their love more effectually than 
a long separation. 

When the day of parting came, the young wife’s white 
face was a sight sad enough to damp even Miss Leake’s 
persistent cheerfulness. The poor girl looked at her sis- 
ters with a dumb protest against their failure to solve the 
problem of her life with less pain to herself. She looked 
at her husband with imploring tenderness, as if she en- 
treated him to forgive her for sending him away alone. 
He had accepted the position, and had no words to throw 
away upon it. Besides, his hurt was too deep to bear 
meddling with. She had slipped from his life, as if his 
love had no hold upon her, and he could not endure to 
utter a reproach or express a regret. 

When he gave her his parting kiss she clung to him in 
a silence more passionate than words. It seehned as if, 
now the moment had come, she was utterly unprepared 
for it, and could not bear to let him go. He loosed her 
arms gently from his neck, kissed her again, looked into 
her eyes, and was gone. 

Then she threw herself on the couch in an abandon- 
ment of grief, and refused to be comforted. 

“No, no,” she said to her anxious sisters; “do not 
speak to me. You do not care. You do not understand. 
You never liked him, and he is better than any of us. 
Why didn’t I go with him? Why didn’t you send me? 
I shall never be happy here — never. I ought to have 
gone. Why didn’t Susie tell me to go?” 

“ Poor child ! poor dear child !” said Susie, sympathet- 
ically ; “she will get over it presently.” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


113 


CHAPTER IX. 

SEPARATED. 

Agnes did get over it, certainly, in the way her sisters 
had expected. She recovered her cheerfulness and a cer- 
tain measure of health, and she was permitted by those 
around her to be occasionally fretful, and even unreason- 
able, in consideration of the trying circumstances in which 
she was placed. 

She was made more of a pet than ever, as one who had 
an afflicting story belonging to her, and who might be 
considered somewhat of a heroine on the strength of it. 
But the atmosphere in which she lived was not bracing ; 
the encouragement which she received in her self-pity and 
self-indulgence gave little hope of a return to robust life. 
It was not wonderful, then, that she never completely re- 
covered her health, nor even that very moderate degree 
of mental vigor which had once been hers. She had al- 
ways intended to be happy, and to behave well, according 
to her limited ideas ; and this intention had given some 
spring and elasticity to her thoughts, even when she was 
most submissive to Susie. It had contributed also not a 
little — as youthful hopefulness does — to her activity of 
limb and alertness of interest in events outside her own 
life. 

Now she knew distinctly that she was not happy; she 
had possessed something which she would miss daily and 
always, and she was not willing to pay the needful price 
for its recovery. Also she knew perfectly, amid those 
deeper and unspoken regrets over which a veil of trivial 
troubles was discreetly drawn, that she was not behaving 
well to the man to whom she owed so much, and who had 
never, even for a moment, acted towards her with selfish- 
ness. 

As she could not alter her conduct satisfactorily with- 

8 


114 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


out suffering, and as she did not want to suffer, her foun- 
dation for belief in herself and hope in the future was 
gone. It was easiest to look on herself as an invalid, to 
regard the circumstances of life as too strong for her, and, 
since she could not be happy, to be at least as comfortable 
as she could. 

Therefore she accepted the mitigations offered to her 
by fate, and was content to be ailing and somewhat dull. 
Too much energy or intelligence might have spurred her 
to an effort which she dreaded to make, and she was en- 
couraged by her sisters to avoid those dangerous quali- 
ties. Everything would be forgiven her except a spirit 
of enterprise. Whatever she did badly or failed to do 
was attributed to her ill-health. If she was idle, it was 
supposed that she did not feel well enough to work; if 
she was fretful or petulant, it was supposed that she was 
thinking over her sad experiences. Every duty was taken 
from her, and she was encouraged to rest or amuse her- 
self as she felt disposed. She was caressed, consoled, and 
indulged in everything except the one secret wish of her 
heart, and that wish she perhaps never acknowledged to 
herself after the first anguish of separation was over. 

Her old friends welcomed her back among them. They 
said that she was sweeter than ever — more interesting ; 
but they made little capital out of her adventures. She 
could not bear to talk of them ; she shuddered when they 
were referred to, but she brightened into animation when 
her husband was mentioned. Yet even on this subject 
her readiness to give information was small ; Mr. Dil- 
worth was wonderfully good and clever, and that was all 
she could find to say. 

If any one remarked politely that she must miss him 
very much, she acquiesced ; but would add with a sigh, 
“ Susie says that even if I were strong enough to join him 
in Australia, I should only interfere with his work there.” 

So she fell back into the old life, with its old pleasures 
and old monotony ; she looked forward to letters from 
her husband ; with that exception it began to be as if she 
had never married at all. 

But this period, when forgetfulness and a return to her 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


115 


girlish days seemed possible, was not to last long. She 
had taken a step which must change her whole life, and, 
however much she might avoid its consequences and shirk 
its responsibilities, the new days would not fit on to the 
old as if there had been no gap between. 

A new life began at “The Stepping-stones” in the 
spring of the year, a little life innocent of wrong, and ig- 
norant of all the perplexity about it ; and the day came 
when Agnes Dilworth, holding her baby in her arms, 
looked at her sisters and wondered if they would not say 
that now she ought to join her husband. 

They said nothing of the sort. They assured her, on 
the contrary, that it was her duty to remain in England 
for the sake of her little daughter. 

The child had been named Henrietta Kate, after the 
husband Agnes loved and the sister she had lost. Miss 
Leake would have objected to the first name, as awkward- 
ly long and vulgarly fine, but she was afraid to object to 
anything at the moment, lest her own influence should 
slip away before the new power of maternity. 

Under the changed condition of things, Henry Dilworth 
could be even less ignored and forgotten than before ; it 
was natural, unavoidable even, that his wife should think 
of him and talk of him a great deal. Yet it seemed to 
Miss Leake more important than ever that Agnes should 
be prevented from sacrificing her life to his, because the 
whole future of this little niece (whom Miss Leake re- 
ceived at once into her affectionate care, though she was 
not fond of babies) depended on the associations of her 
infancy and the education of her youth. 

She tried to impress this fact on Agnes. She even per- 
suaded her that Henry Dilworth himself would wish his 
daughter to lose none of the advantages secured by a res- 
idence in Elmdale. 

“ Many mothers bring their children home to be edu- 
cated, and here you are comfortably settled already,” she 
observed, “ and everything as it should be. It must be a 
great satisfaction to Mr. Dilworth to know that you and 
the baby are so well cared for while he is obliged to be 
absent on these explorations,” 


116 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Every occupation in Australia, even sheep-farming, was 
an “ exploration ” to Miss Leake at this period. 

Poor Agnes had been inclined to think, in the new 
yearning of her heart over this little child, that her baby’s 
interests turned the scale of duty the other way, and that 
no daughter could be better for missing a father’s love. 
Also she had fancied — foolishly, of course, since Susie 
thought otherwise — that Henry Dilworth had a right to 
this child, besides having a stronger right than ever to 
the child’s mother. 

She knew that he liked all children — how tender he had 
been to that poor stupid boy on the island ! — she knew 
how he had loved her / and sometimes faintly it dawned 
upon her what a sad disappointment his marriage must 
have been to him ; he had been made use of to the ut- 
most, at a time of need, and sent away with scanty thanks 
when the need was over. A faint desire to “ behave bet- 
ter” to him was in her mind, a dim fancy that perhaps 
this child was sent to her husband as a compensation for 
her own weakness and a recompense for his love. 

But she shrank from effort and inconvenience ; she dis- 
liked deciding for herself, and preferred that others should 
tell her what to do. She could not endure a struggle 
against the will of those around her, unless forced to it 
by unpleasant sensations or the fear of them. So she let 
the time drift by without seizing this opportunity to re- 
assert her freedom of will, without making any advance 
to her husband or appeal to him. 

He waited for it, and hoped for it. The thought of a 
home, with Agnes as its mistress and a little child as its 
delight, was very pleasant to him ; but he made no claim 
in spite of this. If Agnes was not willing to come to him, 
and had no desire to send for him, if she was not content 
to live with him in any way possible to his nature, he was 
determined to force her to no effort of self-denial. His 
was the strength, and with him should rest the disappoint- 
ment of this marriage, if disappointment there must be. 
He had entered into it for her sake, and for her sake he 
would relinquish every right it gave. At least his work 
was left to him, and in that he found solace and hope. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


117 


But it could not be as if lie had never married her, or 
as if he had no wife and no child living far away ; his 
thoughts went to them often across the deserts and the 
lonely sea; and the dull continual aching of yearnings un- 
satisfied brought an unspoken sadness into his life. 

Gradually he came to understand that Miss Leake was 
— consciously or unconsciously — scheming to protect his 
wife and child from the injury which his presence would 
do to them. He comprehended that she regarded his 
absence as essential to their welfare and happiness, and 
that, through all her forms of polite regret at his separa- 
tion from his family, she was perpetually appealing to 
him not to return. 

No word from Agnes contradicted this appeal, or he 
would have altogether ignored it. His wife had ceased 
to write of any near reunion as probable ; she seemed to 
have settled back into old habits, and to have no thought 
of change. Therefore he let the time go by; and though 
sad enough at heart to think that the only service he 
could do to these he loved best was to keep far from their 
sight, he made no outward complaint or protest. Miss 
Leake always said that he was absorbed in his pursuits, 
and that it would be wrong to interfere with him. Agnes 
seemed to believe her. 

So that, after all, Agnes gaified little freedom by her 
motherhood. She had not the strength of will to make 
the most of any position in which she was not properly 
supported ; and her delicate health always gave her sis- 
ters a plea for interfering with any plans that were too 
vigorous. It also permitted them to ignore apparent dis- 
content, or to attribute it to physical causes. If Agnes 
seemed restless, they said she wanted a change ; if she 
was low-spirited, they said she was fatigued, and must 
keep very quiet ; if they found her in tears, they soothed 
her, and brought her a cup of tea. On every occasion 
they persuaded her that her melancholy arose from phys- 
ical causes, and not from an unsatisfied heart. 

Even the child came to be regarded as little more than 
a plaything so far as she was concerned. When she was 
well enough she was permitted to amuse herself with it, 


118 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


but it was instantly taken from her as soon as she ap- 
peared tired. She was not supposed to be strong enough 
to take the management of the infant, and Miss Leake 
was the actual authority who arranged the baby’s affairs, 
as she arranged everything else within her reach. 

She had so great a dread of Henry Dilworth’s interfer- 
ence with his child’s education, so great a fear of his re- 
turn before that education was finished, that, contrary to 
her own general principles, she began a system of teach- 
ing ridiculously early, and engaged a French nurse to 
take care of Kate when the child was only three years of 
age. 

Consequently, at five years old, Henry Dilworth’s daugh- 
ter spoke a smattering of a tongue wholly unknown to 
her father, was full of the caprices of a spoiled little lady 
— convinced of her own importance and of the vulgarity 
of the general world — and was altogether as different a 
creature as well could be from what her father would 
have made her. She had been encouraged in the cultiva- 
tion of an exclusiveness which she did not understand ; 
for Miss Leake’s exaggerated dread of any development 
of vulgar tastes in the child had led her to check every 
innocent tendency to that affability which she had thought 
it safe to cultivate in her own more happily placed sisters. 

Under these circumstances little Kate soon learned to 
be wilful and imperious, to regard with more or less con- 
tempt every one who was not admitted to the sanctuary 
of her aunt’s drawing-room, and to indulge her own feel- 
ings at the cost of any stranger whom she judged to be 
of an inferior type — one that did not come up to the all- 
sufficient drawing-room standard. When she was four 
years old a courageous plumber ventured to address a 
remark to her uninvited. He was mending the window 
of her nursery, and he thought that his superiority of ago 
entitled him to be friendly and conversational. But the 
little lady soon put him in his right place. She drew her- 
self up to her full height, clutched her doll tightly and 
protectingly in her arms, and replied, with more haughti- 
ness than grammar, “ How dare you speak to such peo- 
ple as us?” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


119 


Meanwhile, with every healthful stimulus to exertion 
removed, with every unselfish interest taken from her, it 
was not wonderful that the health of Agnes gradually 
deteriorated. Nor was it strange that, in the invalid’s 
life she was encouraged to lead, the final failure of her 
strength should escape observation for some time after it 
had begun. The unsatisfactory and anomalous position 
which she occupied preyed upon her spirits more and 
more as she left behind her the easy docility as well as 
the inconsequent light-heartedness of girlhood. 

A mother with little authority over her child, a wife 
who never saw her husband, and who had never presid- 
ed over any household — there was something unreal and 
dispiriting about her life. She had grown used to it, 
however; any change which could come now would be 
as much a trial as a relief ; she felt that circumstances 
were hopelessly wrong, and that nothing could be done 
to better them. She said to herself that perhaps it was 
true, as Susie evidently thought, that her marriage had 
been a mistake, and that she should have made her way 
home alone. 

Even little Katie failed to arouse her and to make her 
happy; the child was only a part of the general perplexi- 
ty and contradiction, a responsibility which troubled with- 
out inspiring her to effort. She felt vaguely that her hus- 
band’s probable wishes were not sufficiently considered 
in the little girl’s education ; she knew instinctively that 
Susie had no true appreciation of Henry Dilworth, and 
that it was not right or fair to leave the management of 
his daughter entirely in her hands. 

But she was too listless to interfere. As her despond- 
ency increased her energies flagged more and more, and 
she suffered from a corresponding failure in health. This 
seemed to her sisters only a temporary weakness, from 
which she would recover as she had recovered many times 
before. The change was too gradual to be alarming, and 
excited little attention in one who had been so long re- 
garded as an invalid. 

In the sixth year of little Kate’s existence there occurred 
a blank of many months in the Australian correspondence. 


120 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Henry Dilworth bad accepted the command of an impor- 
tant exploring expedition, which took him far out of the 
regions of mails. For a long period, therefore, his wife 
received no letters from him; and, in her increasing weak- 
ness, she fretted over this disappointment strangely. She 
was at first anxious about her husband, afterwards about 
herself ; and she repeated many times to her sisters, “ I 
shall never see him again, I know.” 

They laughed at her fears; and when news came of 
Henry Dilworth’s safe arrival in civilized regions, they 
expected an immediate return to cheerfulness on the part 
of his wife. But she persisted in repeating, “ I shall never 
see him again, I know.” 

She wrote to him in this strain, complaining with some 
passion of his long absence, as if, indeed, he had remained 
away against her wish : 

“ I am very ill, though they won’t believe it,” she wrote, 
“ and I shall die without seeing you, I know. Why don’t 
you come home? Why did you ever go away? or why 
did you marry me at all ? I have not been happy, though 
they tell me I have. I don’t think I could have borne it 
so long, but it was good for the little girl. I don’t want 
her to be unhappy like me. I don’t want her to know 
that any one can be so unhappy. I didn’t — before I left 
home. And now I want to see you before I die. You will 
talk to me, and make me not afraid. The others won’t 
hear of it. They tell me I shall get better, and I am too 
tired to argue. I want some one to believe me without. 
You must come. Agnes.” 

This letter, with its passionate reproach, its pitiful ap- 
peal, its ungrateful forgetfulness of all her husband’s si- 
lent abnegation, was a strange reopening of the closed 
past. 

The next vessel which left Australia for England took 
Henry Dilworth back to his wife. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


121 


CHAPTER X. 

A WELCOME AND GOOD-BYE. 

When Henry Dilworth reached “ The Stepping-stones ” 
the low light of the afternoon sun was gleaming over the 
hill-tops, and sending far the shadow of the trees. The 
years since he had last visited the place had changed it 
little; the very same water seemed to be slipping over 
the very same stones, the tufts of fern on the banks, the 
groups of trees on the hillocks, were just what they used 
to be. 

But a little child was playing in the front garden, a 
child with dark hair and shining dark eyes. She came 
into the road to watch him cross the river, and as he ap- 
proached her she said, in a clear little imperious voice, “ I 
should like to cross by the stones. Carry me over.” 

It had occurred to her intelligent mind that a stranger 
might be induced to satisfy an old ambition of hers — 
weeks old — to be carried over the stepping-stones. Miss 
Leake had forbidden her nurse to gratify this reasonable 
desire ; but this man, whom she had never seen before, 
couldn’t be aware of the troublesome fact, and would 
probably do as he was told without asking inconvenient 
questions. 

When, however, she spoke to Henry Dilworth a flood 
of mingled wonder and recognition swept over his brain. 
Could this be his own child — the little girl he had thought 
of, and longed to see ? She was such a child as any father 
might be proud of, and yet not, perhaps, the child of his 
imagination. 

He took her up in his arms and looked at her silently. 
For a moment she made no objection, but looked back 
at him with composure, expecting a reply. When she 
thought she had waited long enough, she repeated, with 
some impatience and more imperiousness, “ Carry me 
over.” 


m 


IN’ SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ To-morrow, perhaps, little one ; not now.” 

She became angry at once, when she found that he had 
taken the liberty of lifting her up without intending to 
carry out her wishes, and her anger took the form of dig- 
nified reserve rather amusing in so young a child. 

“Put me down ; I don’t like you,” she said, concisely. 

“ Is your name Katie — Katie Dil worth ?” he asked her, 
holding her still in his arms. 

But her anger grew into passion at his persistence. 

“Put me down. You are a rude man. I shall tell 
Aunt Susie. Allez-vous-en ,” she said, breaking into her 
old nurse’s language in her excitement, and struggling to 
free herself from his grasp. 

“ Give me a kiss first,” he answered, with characteristic 
gentleness. 

“No. You are ugly. You are big. You are rude. 
Je ne vous aime pas. Allez vous-en .” And she struck at 
his face in her anger with her soft little palms. 

The foreign words hurled at him by those infantile lips 
hurt him more than the blow she tried to give him in her 
childish passion. Already it seemed that she was edu- 
cated out of his world ; she spoke to him in a language 
he could not understand, and recognized him as some one 
to whom she might be impertinent with impunity. Nev- 
ertheless there was something pleasant in the sensation 
of being kicked at by the little feet whose existence he 
had never fully realized until now. 

He put her down on the ground, hoping to soothe her, 
and to work his way into her confidence more gradually 
than he had first attempted to do. But she gave him no 
further opportunity ; as soon as she found herself at lib- 
erty she fled through the garden into the house. He fol- 
lowed her, entering as she had done, by the open door, 
and he was witness of her breathless entrance into the 
drawing-room. 

“ Aunt Susie, there is a man in the garden, a very big 
man, and he wanted to kiss me, and — there he is !” 

Agnes had been lying on the couch with her eyes shut, 
but she opened them eagerly at the child’s first words. 
Now she sprang to her feet, her eyes fixed expectantly on 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


123 


the door- way, and the color coming and going in her worn 
cheeks. 

Her husband, when he first saw her, hardly knew wheth- 
er the change in her looks was one of sickness or health ; 
her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her weakness 
was masked by momentary excitement. 

He looked at no one else, but put out his hands towards 
her with a rare bright smile of tender recognition. 

She uttered a low cry, and went forward to meet him. 

“Henry!” she said; “at last! Oh, how long it is!” 
And then, to the consternation of her sisters, she fainted 
away in his arms. 

The sadness of this late reunion was more evident than 
its happiness. There would be no more parting between 
the husband and wife before the last one — because that 
was so near. No one would struggle again to wean Ag- 
nes from Henry Dilworth’s influence, because Death had 
claimed her, and sisters and husband alike must yield her 
to him. 

Agnes herself knew it, as soon as the first joyful excite- 
ment was over. 

“ It is too late ; you cannot save me this time, dearest,” 
she said, addressing him by a tenderer term than she had 
ever used before. “ You have come so very far only to 
say good-bye.” 

“ More than that,” he said ; “ to look at you, to be with 
you, to help you if I can.” 

“ Yes,” she sighed, speaking low in her weakness. “ It 
would have been hard to die without you, now, when I 
am your wife. Even on the island you promised to be 
with me if I died.” 

“ I am glad you sent for me, very glad.” It was all he 
said ; he uttered no regrets to her, and no reproach to 
any one else. There was no time to waste in anger or 
repining. He wanted to keep her with him for a little 
longer, to have a few days of love and reconciliation 
which he might remember when the end had come ; but 
even this respite was not granted to him. He was not 
permitted to look with her upon the dawning of another 
day. 


124 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Late that night Katie was carried to her mother, and 
told to kiss her as she lay in bed propped up by pillows, 
breathing with difficulty. The strange man sat by the 
bedside, and had hardly a word or look for the child, who 
gazed at the whole scene with awed and wondering eyes. 
What was his daughter to him at this moment, when her 
mother and his wife lay dying in his sight? 

“I am not so much afraid now — as I was — the first 
time,” Agnes murmured to him afterwards, as he sat be- 
side her, listening to the broken confidences which she 
tried to give from time to time. “ Life is so sad. I didn’t 
know. I never would believe it. But oh ! how I wanted 
you — dear ! And you were so far away. It was no use 
speaking.” 

“You should have written. I wanted to come — al- 
ways.” 

“It would have been no use. I shouldn’t have gone 
with you. They wouldn’t have let me. And perhaps — 
I didn’t want. I don’t know. I never could find out. 
And Susie was always quite sure. But I am glad you 
came. I want you — now. No one else would do. Susie 
is kind ; but she is not — like you. You will not leave 
me any more.” 

“No more, dear child, no more.” 

“Susie is not like you,” she repeated ; “she believes in 
good things when she wants. But you believe — always. 
That makes them seem real. You are so good. You nev- 
er said what you didn’t think true. I don’t mean Susie 
did. I don’t know what I mean. Does it matter ? What 
I mean is that I am not afraid, not so much afraid, when 
you are here. I knew it would be so. That was why I 
wanted you to come.” 

Later on she revived a little, and turned again to the 
thought of life. 

“ Why am I to die ? I am so young. I ought to have 
been happy. I meant to be. I thought when I married 
you it would be right for us both.” 

Then, as her weakness increased, her mind went back 
to the island, and she thought she was on its desolate 
cliffs once more. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


125 


“Are you there, Mr. Dil worth ?” she murmured. “No 
ship will come to save me now. It is too late. I have 
dreamed that I was at home again, and that we were — 
Ah, it is true we were married, is it not ? And you went 
away. I never knew why. Susie said — perhaps,” she 
broke off with a flicker of light shining in on her trou- 
bled thoughts, “you were my ship — and I should have 
gone with you. But now — I must sail away — alone.” 

Before the morning dawned, the dreaded hour had pass- 
ed ; the little bark had drifted from the shores of life, 
and was lost to sight and speech in the dim solitudes of 
death. 


CHAPTER XI. 

LITTLE KATIE. 

It was the afternoon of the funeral day. Agnes Dil- 
worth had been laid in that grave where she had longed 
to rest when death seemed near her on the island. Her 
husband had stood in the familiar place, while the sun 
shone, and not far off the river ran with the murmurous 
sound she had loved and remembered. 

Her little part in life’s tragedy was over. Somehow 
she had failed to make the best of it for herself and for 
others. Perhaps she had never had a fair chance ; the 
opportunity of happiness offered to her was on a scale 
beyond her comprehension, on a level outside her reach. 
At any rate, she had never grasped it ; and now, in the 
bright world, where she had desired so much to be always 
comfortable, nothing was left of her but a melancholy 
memory. 

And of Henry Dilworth’s marriage nothing was left but 
disappointment and a wounded heart — except, indeed, a 
little child. His wife’s love had failed him, his home had 
remained a lonely place, the rights of his position had been 
denied to him, and of all the hopes of the past nothing 
was left to him : he must return to the solitary, uncared- 
for life he had led so long. 

But there was little Katie. His power over her was 


126 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


absolute, his right in her complete. It might be, indeed, 
that a new blossom of affection was destined to flower 
where the tree of love had been broken abruptly off near 
the roots, and that this young life, so ignorant of evil, so 
innocent of prejudice, might atone for the disappointment 
of the past, and be a solace and a satisfaction to Henry 
Dilworth’s later life. 

Miss Leake had thought of the child often during the past 
week ; her trouble for her sister’s death was mingled with 
anxiety for her niece’s future. The death of Agnes seemed 
to have destroyed her own right to little Katie, yet she 
could not endure the thought of giving her up to her father. 

The consciousness of her own weak claim made her less 
than just to Henry Dilworth. She felt that his coming 
had already brought trouble, and that absence was the 
only quality she could tolerate in him. She could not 
reproach him for his return to his wife, after so many 
years of absence, though she felt that the shock of his 
arrival — joyful as it evidently was — had hastened her sis- 
ter’s end. On the other hand, she made no apology for 
having left him in ignorance of his wife’s increasing ill- 
ness ; for she had been herself unaware of its seriousness. 
Agnes was always ailing, always weakly, and many false 
alarms had lulled her sisters to a false security. Miss 
Leake fancied, from the sombre silence of Henry Dil- 
worth, that he was inclined to blame her — unjustly, as 
she considered. But in this she was mistaken. 

He blamed no one — not Agnes, nor her friends, nor him- 
self. If their love had not been strong enough to nullify 
outward influences, he could not be angry at those influ- 
ences for existing. 

It was true that among the possible drawbacks of his 
marriage with Agnes he had not thought of her desertion, 
nor of her family’s polite, but most intolerable, tolerance 
of him. He had looked forward to vexations for which 
their love would be a compensation, troubles which their 
mutual confidence would help them to face ; but he had 
not imagined* his wife slipping out of the situation, and 
leaving him in a position where he had some of the du- 
ties, but none of the privileges, of a husband. 


IN SHALLOW WATEKS. 


127 


Nevertheless, he had accepted this unthought-of devel- 
opment also in silence. It was impossible for him to make 
demands, to act with selfishness. He had not begun the 
connection on this footing, and he could not nullify his 
own generous desire by putting forward as an obnoxious 
claim what he had regarded only as a reasonable hope. 

And now all possibility of a reunion with his wife and 
a happy married life was over ; but there yet remained 
to him his little child, and half of her nature was his 
own. 

He had hardly seen her during the days before the fu- 
neral. When that event was over, when the blinds were 
drawn up again, and Miss Leake put away her handker- 
chief with a feeling that the past had had its share for 
the moment, and that the future must be faced, Henry 
Dilworth asked that his child might be brought to him. 

She came, carefully dressed in her new black frock, with 
a serious face and large eyes fixed in infantine resolve. 
She had heard many strange things in the last few days, 
and had meditated on them in childish fashion. No one 
had asked her opinion of recent events, but she had formed 
a decided one. The coming of the big man had brought 
trouble ; her pretty mamma had died — all through that 
coming, the nurse said — and now nurse said also that the 
big man would take her away with him to a dreadful 
country — “ poor little dear •!” 

She was resolved not to go — at any rate if tears, inso- 
lence, and kicks could keep her at home — and she was pre- 
pared to act accordingly. She knew now that the big man 
was no impostor — as she had been at first inclined to re- 
gard him — but her actual father ; that made no difference, 
however. Her aunt had never wanted him to come, so 
nurse said, and she didn’t want him either ; her pretty 
mamma had refused to go to the dreadful country with 
him, so nurse said also, and she wouldn’t go either. 

All these interesting family disclosures had not been 
made by the nurse directly to the child, but to a fellow- 
servant ; and the child had been supposed not to under- 
stand, or to forget immediately — as children are always 
supposed to do until they are old enough actually to join 


128 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


in the conversation and prove their intelligent compre- 
hension. 

So little Katie Dilworth walked in that afternoon, very- 
innocent in appearance, but really a small explosive, primed 
to go off at the right moment. 

Henry Dilworth’s gloomy look brightened and his heart 
softened at the sight of the child. 

“ Come to me, little one,” he said, putting out his hands 
encouragingly, and let us get to know each other.” 

She went forward obediently, with a side glance at Aunt 
Susie, whose presence she would have preferred to dis- 
pense with. She was not afraid of the “ big man she 
had her mother’s instinct of confidence in the right peo- 
ple ; only she didn’t like him, and intended to tell him to 
go away. Surely he would be as easy to deal with as the 
impertinent plumber. 

He lifted her on his knee, where she sat with prim stiff- 
ness, and he said to her, gently, “ Give me a kiss, Katie.” 

She looked at him for a moment sidelong, as if to see 
how he might be expected to take her reply ; then she 
answered, in a little voice of decision, “ Thank you ; I 
don’t want to. I don’t like you.” 

A flush of painful surprise passed over her father’s face. 
Miss Leake rose with a protesting “ Katie,” but Henry 
Dilworth glanced at her with a look which made her sit 
down again in silence. She saw that he could endure no 
interference at the moment. 

“Why don’t you like me, Katie?” he asked, quietly. 

She glanced at him again, to see how far his quietness 
might be trusted, and decided that he would be quite as 
easy to deal with as the plumber. 

“ You are not — nice.” Here her childish eyes wandered 
over him observantly, trying to find a reason. He was 
not badly dressed, like the plumber, certainly, but reasons 
were not wanting. “You are — rough. Regardez done vos 
mains. Your hands , you know,” as she saw him look per- 
plexed. Then, with a little air of successful impertinence, 
“ If he’s my papa, why can’t he speak French, Aunt Susie ?” 

There was a moment’s silence. Henry Dilworth put the 
child on the ground and rose to his feet. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


129 


“ Miss Leake,” he said, not without dignity, “ is this the 
way you are training my daughter to love me ?” 

Miss Leake felt that- he had the advantage. She was 
in the wrong, at least her side was in the wrong, obvious- 
ly, unjustly, vulgarly even. She began to apologize. 

“ I cannot understand it. I never heard the child speak 
so. She has been left so much to the servants for the 
last few days — unavoidably. That must be the reason.” 

“And this is the result of your servants’ opinion of me?” 

It was Miss Leake’s turn to flush painfully. 

“ I cannot tell. I have no reason to think so. Katie,” 
she said, sharply, glad to escape from her embarrassment 
by reproving the child, “ go to your father at once and 
tell him that you are sorry.” 

“No, no, no,” said Henry Dilworth, softly ; “she must 
not be scolded into love of me.” 

“ She must be made to do what is right. Katie, come 
here. I am ashamed of you.” 

But the child stood still, looking in perplexity and 
growing excitement from one to the other. This was not 
so simple as the plumber’s affair after all. 

“ Tell me, Katie,” asked her father, gently, “ is that the 
only reason you don’t like me — because I am rough ?” 

At this point Katie’s excitement and fear that she was 
going to be punished overcame her. She burst into tears 
and sobbed out, “ You want to take me away, nurse says, 
and I don’t want to go. And mamma didn’t want to go ; 
and you made her ill ; and you made her die ; and I won’t 
go. Aunt Susie, don’t let him take me !” And she threw 
herself weeping into the arms of her embarrassed, but not 
altogether displeased, aunt. 

“Poor child ! she is fond of us all, and is afraid of 
strangers.” 

“ Not afraid, I think,” her father answered, with a strange 
smile ; “ she seems to have courage enough — but I would 
rather have seen a little affection this afternoon.” 

“That will come in time.” 

“ If she stays here.” 

She looked up at him quickly. 

“ Will you leave her with us, then ?” 

9 


130 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“To learn to dislike me — perhaps to despise me?” 

“That would be impossible when she learns to under- 
stand. No one here does that” said Miss Leake, recover- 
ing herself. “ This is the nurse’s fault — a new girl, who 
shall be sent away at once.” 

“ Don’t you think it is the fault of the — atmosphere ?” 
he asked. 

Miss Leake looked at him in surprise. She had never 
heard him speak in this way before. His simplicity had 
always seemed to nullify his strength of will in his deal- 
ings with her. She was not prepared for shrewdness and 
sarcasm. 

“ I think you are doing us an injustice,” she answered, 
with dignity; “ I hope so.” 

Katie was still weeping on her aunt’s shoulder. Per- 
haps it was the most discreet thing she could do under 
the circumstances. 

“ Shall I send her away to the nursery ?” Miss Leake 
asked. 

“There is no need. I am going out,” he said; “you 
can keep her with you.” 

So Katie was left to be scolded gently and consoled 
abundantly, while her father went out to the solitary hill- 
side, to meditate on this last bitter experience. 

It was hard to leave his child to such influences, yet, to 
a man of his nature, it would have been harder still to tear 
her away against her will. Besides, he was uncertain of 
his own fitness to take charge of so delicate a creature, 
uncertain of his right to deprive her of the advantages 
which an education in England and a home among her 
mother’s friends would give to her — from the ordinary 
point of view. Would not Agnes have desired that her 
child should retain the social advantages, the comfort, the 
luxury, the refinement, for which she had herself sacrificed 
love and home ? Would not Katie herself, when she was 
old enough to understand, decide that her father was self- 
ish to have deprived her of these things ? What had he 
to give her in place of them that a woman could value ? 
Agnes had loved him— and left him ; her sisters esteemed 
him— and disliked him. His own little child, with an in- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


131 


herited refinement and a cultivated fastidiousness, had al- 
ready found him unsatisfactory. 

It was a hard thing, indeed, that he who so easily in- 
spired confidence in children should have received this 
repulse from his own little one ; he would have given her 
tenderness, sympathy, and protection ; but she took those 
as a matter of course, and demanded something more. 
His strength of character, his persistent purpose, his pa- 
tient kindness seemed to avail him nothing in this fastid- 
ious world in which his wife had lived, and from which 
his infant daughter looked at him with disapproving eyes. 
Negative qualities were asked from him here, rather than 
positive ones, and it was the positive in which he excelled. 
He was too old now to be trained into something smooth 
and highly polished ; he could work and he could love ; 
but the child of his love, the little creature in whose pulses 
his own life was beating, looked upon him with alien eyes, 
and recognized him as not of her class. 

He could yield his claim to her love, but he could not 
take the risk of seeing her turn upon him, and tell him 
that his affection had been a cruelty, his claim a destruc- 
tion of the rights inherited from her mother. 

Therefore he went back to Australia a lonely man once 
more. Every one told him that it was the only thing 
possible to do. His child would be educated and cared 
for as her delicate nature required, and when she was old 
enough she could join him, or he could come home to 
her. 

Miss Leake was full of anxious humility. She showed 
a desire to conform to Henry Dilworth’s wishes in every 
detail of Katie’s education, and spoke as if she felt her- 
self a mere subordinate hired to carry out his plans. She 
was sincerely grieved at the slight he had received, and 
ashamed that her teaching had left it possible for the 
child to speak so improperly. She did her best to atone 
for this injury while he remained at “The Stepping-stones 
and little Katie herself, growing used to his presence, and 
finding that she was not to be taken away, adopted a tar- 
dy friendship for her father, and forgave him the rough- 
ness of bis hands for the sake of the height and general 


132 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


comfortableness of his shoulder. Thence she surveyed 
the world with satisfied eyes, and discoursed with much 
affability. She even offered to teach her father to talk 
French, if he would stay long enough to learn. 

But life at “ The Stepping-stones ” was too limited for 
him, and he went back to his old work alone. 


PART IIL 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

UNDER THE ELMDALE TREES. 

A young man and woman were riding slowly up a 
wooded lane half a mile from “ The Stepping-stones.” The 
purple gray of distant mountains was seen in a gap where 
the lane turned, and behind the trees on each side rose 
the nearer hills, which met here in a kind of pass — on the 
one hand with a steep, rocky front, on the other in a 
broken face of crags and knolls. The warm sunlight was 
modified by the overhanging foliage, there was a sweet 
scent of vegetation in the air, a fitful concert of birds, the 
running accompaniment of a river near at hand. 

“ Yes,” the young lady was saying, with her pretty chin 
in the air, and a somewhat supercilious expression on her 
countenance, “ I don’t deny that it’s a beautiful country; 
and you who belong to it may well be satisfied to spend 
your life here.” 

Her companion lifted his eyebrows a little as he an- 
swered, “ You don’t happen to belong to it, I suppose? It 
didn’t occur to you to be born here ?” 

“ It was by a kind of accident that it did ; and you 
know that I don’t consider this my home. My home is 
properly in Australia. I have told you so a hundred 
times,” she answered, with impatience. 

“It’s an odd sort of home that you have never seen, 
and never are likely to see — if I may make such an ob- 
noxious remark.” 

The girl’s face flushed with vexation. 


134 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ Why should you say so ? How do you know ?” 

“I never hear any one speak of such a possibility ex- 
cept yourself,” was the reply, “ and Miss Leake seems 
vexed when you refer to it.” 

“ Oh,” answered the girl, with the easy contempt of 
youth and inexperience, “ because Aunt Susie has hardly 
been out of Elmdale in her life, she thinks no one else 
ought to go. Elmdale isn’t the world, but she thinks it 
is. However, when my father wants me, she will have to 
let me go.” 

“ Is your father likely to want you ?” the young man 
asked quietly, and with a quick glance of observation at 
her face. 

It flushed again as she replied, impatiently, “ I should 
think so ; it is only natural that he should, as much as I 
want to go to him. Of course I must join him as soon as 
he considers me old enough.” 

“And you have been educated with this view?” he 
asked, somewhat sarcastically. 

“ How unkind you are ! Does it require a- special ed- 
ucation to go to Australia, and live with one’s own fa- 
ther ?” 

“ When one’s own father happens to be a remarkable 
man of original — not to say eccentric — habits of self-de- 
nial, and one happens to be one’s self a young lady of 
fastidious taste and luxurious fashion of living.” 

“ I don’t consider myself luxurious ; I’m sure my tastes 
are very simple.” 

“Oh yes; everything working so smoothly that you 
don’t know there’s any work at all going forward ; I 
know the style of simplicity. The wheels of life revolv- 
ing out of sight, and not even smelling of the oil that 
makes them run easily! If you went out to Australia 
you’d be wretched yourself, and a nuisance to your fa- 
ther ; and it’s my opinion that he’s a pretty shrewd idea 
of it, or he would hatfe sent for you long before this.” 

The young girl — who, indeed, was no other than Henry 
Dilworth’s daughter Kate — was silent. Her face had be- 
come serious and a little troubled. It was after an inter- 
val of some moments that she said, slowly, “ That isn’t a 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


135 


pleasant thing to think— -that I should be a nuisance to 
my own father.” 

“ It wouldn’t be your fault, nor his either ; I don’t 
mean that it would. But he’s been roughing it out there 
until he’s an old man, and you’ve been living daintily here 
until you are a woman. Mark my words, you were never 
intended to go out to him in Australia. If you had been, 
why did he never come to see you ? and where would be 
the use of your fine boarding-school, and so on ?” 

“ Every one must be educated , of course.” 

“What do you call education? If you are educated, 
your father isn’t — from all accounts. For his system of 
life seems to be the opposite of yours. He’s always do- 
ing something. Now, so far as I can make out the scheme 
of your education, it seems to me to indicate that you 
have been carefully and precisely brought up — to do noth- 
ing.” 

“ I can do multitudes of things.” 

“ Can you cook a chop ? — can you nurse a sick man ? — 
can you make a dress ? — can you light a fire ?” 

“ There has never been any need for me to do those 
things, or I should have learned them, of course.” 

“Then you had better stay in a country where you 
won’t be called upon to do them. I should fancy that 
they are precisely the things which you would find useful 
in the life you’d lead with your father.” 

Kate looked thoughtful; the subject was a serious one 
to her, and she was not inclined to quarrel with her com- 
panion’s plain speaking ; she had too little of that in her 
life to satisfy her ; and it was precisely because he in- 
dulged in it rather freely that she favored this new and 
younger Jack Langford with her particular friendship. 

“I could learn it all,” she said. 

“ If you had been intended to learn it, you would have 
been taught long ago. I do really believe, Kate, that 
your father does not want you. He is too much occupied 
in his own pursuits to have a woman about him. If he 
wants one, why did your mother never go back with him 
to Australia ?” 

Kate’s gravity increased. 


136 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“She was so delicate ; she was never strong enough ; 
Aunt Susie always says so,” she replied, in a low voice. 

“ Then your father might have come to live in Eng- 
land.” 

Kate looked at him with a flushed face, and spoke 
quickly. 

“Sometimes I think, Jack, that my father hasn’t been 
fairly treated by my mother’s friends. Aunt Susie is so 
narrow. She is very good, and she has spoiled me dread- 
fully. But then she shouldn’t have spoiled me ! And 
she doesn’t understand rules that don’t apply to her life 
here in Elmdale. My father is too big a man for Elm- 
dale ; he belongs to the world.” 

“Very likely you are correct; and Australia gives 
breathing-room even for a man destined to fill the world 
with his life ; but you, may I be permitted to observe, 
have been especially trained for — Elmdale.” 

“Never mind me. I was speaking of my father. Per- 
haps he is not like the men round here — I am sure he 
may well be different without loss ” — she said this with a 
touch of scorn in her voice. “ Perhaps he does not care 
for little points of etiquette and propriety; I should fan- 
cy from things that have been said that he doesn’t. And 
then my aunts were ashamed of him. Ashamed of a man 
like that ! so much too great and good for them to un- 
derstand !” 

“ I can well believe all you say. I have heard some- 
thing not unlike it myself. I even believe about the 
goodness being beyond the Elmdale comprehension ; and 
therefore, allow me to submit, it would very possibly prove 
beyond yours.” 

“Mine? I am his daughter.” 

“ Theoretically, yes. Practically, you belong to your 
mother’s side exclusively.” 

“ How cruel of you to say so !” 

Jack Langford laughed at her vehemence. 

“Your aunt would think it a compliment.” 

“My aunt — always my aunt! It is my father I think 
of; it is my father I want to belong to, that I may make up 
to him for all he has missed, for all my mother could not be.” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


137 


Jack took his turn of silent meditation for a few mo- 
ments ; then he observed, “ I’m not inclined to think you 
overrate your father’s qualities ; he has something of the 
cut of a hero about him from all accounts; but heroes are 
not always the pleasantest characters in domestic life. 
Your mother may have had her reasons.” 

“ She was so delicate,” Kate repeated. 

“ Pooh ! delicate ! She started for Australia with a 
sister ; she might have repeated the experiment with her 
husband; especially as he had brought her back safely 
the first time, when no one else could. No, I never heard 
of your father doing a mean thing ; I have heard of him 
doing many fine ones ; he is certainly a man to be proud 
of. But to live with ! — that is quite another thing. We 
hear so much of his great qualities that it makes one 
doubt about his little ones; for our friends praise us so 
much more readily for little than for big virtues, that 
when these are not mentioned it looks bad. The little 
ones are so much more important, don’t you know.” 

“Well — if he had a bad temper, I shouldn’t care.” 

“He may have a bad temper,” said Jack, meditative- 
ly, “ but I rather think he hasn’t, for he lived three months 
at * The Stepping-stones,’ and went away without having 
quarrelled with any one.” 

“ What a thing to say !” 

“Well, I’ve a great liking for your aunts, as you know, 
and a great respect for them; but it would be rather try- 
ing to me to live in the same house for three months, 
don’t you think ?” 

“ If they could only hear you !” 

“I am afraid my conversation isn’t as improving as it 
might be. Yet they persist in trusting you to my influ- 
ence to a remarkable degree. The fact is that I conform 
to the great moral laws on the important points : I get 
my coats at the right place, and I dine like other people. 
Your aunts are too reasonable to ask more.” 

“ My father didn’t do this, you think ?” 

“I should fancy he didn’t. But then he must have 
been ridiculously conscientious in small matters, or he 
would surely have succeeded in undermining your aunts’ 


138 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


influence over your mother, and have carried her off in 
spite of them.” 

“In spite of them?” 

“Yes, I am sure they were determined that she shouldn’t 
go — perhaps he didn’t want her; but I can’t understand 
a man’s not wanting his wife, even if he feels afterwards 
that his daughter would be a nuisance.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I put it to your common-sense to say whether you 
wouldn't be a nuisance, and dreadfully in the way of a, 
man like your father. He would have to change his 
mode of life altogether if you went to him.” 

“ I could change mine.” 

“You would mean to, but you couldn’t. You hardly 
know where the difference lies ; your habits have become 
your second nature ; you’d have a thing your own way 
from sheer ignorance of the fact that it’s not the only 
way possible.” 

“I shall see — when he sends for me,” Kate answered, 
proudly. 

“He never will send. He would not have left you to 
be brought up in this fashion if he had meant it. But if 
you want to go, why don’t you write and ask him if you 
may?” 

“ No,” said Kate, her cheeks flushing, “ I shall never go 
to him unless he wants me.” 

Jack looked thoughtfully at Kate after her last excla- 
mation. 

“And you have a shrewd suspicion all the time that he 
doesn’t?” he said. “Well, that’s where I think the little 
virtues are perhaps missing. Men with scientific tastes 
and world- wide pursuits can’t be expected to be domes- 
ticated. Perhaps he’s not very affectionate, and doesn’t 
care for family ties. I should think he doesn’t, and your 
devotion would probably be wasted on him ; it might even 
bore him.” 

“I shall not believe it,” said Kate, resolutely. 

“ He’s given you every right to suppose that he doesn’t 
care for your society. Abstract questions interest him, 
and women with sensitive feelings might be only in his 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


139 


way. Does it ever occur to you to remember that your 
mother was his second wife?” 

“ Yes,” said Kate, in a low voice ; “ I often think of it, 
and try to understand it all. The first one was not — a 
lady, I know ; and then he married my mother, who was 
so fastidious.” 

“ Doesn’t it seem to you that he must have been indif- 
ferent on important points? the women were all much the 
same to him, one as good as another.” 

“You don’t suggest pleasant things, Jack,” said Kate, 
reproachfully. 

“I dare say I’m not fair. But I don’t like to see you 
throwing away your life on an ideal that doesn’t exist. 
It’s only w T hat I said before ; your father is a great man, 
who doesn’t want your affections in the least, who would 
rather put down a new mile of map than ever see his 
daughter again !” 

“Jack, you are unkind! I never speak of him to any 
one but you, and you say all these cruel things of him 
and me.” 

“ It’s abominably selfish, I know ; and my motives are 
of the meanest. I say your father doesn’t want you, be- 
cause I want you myself ; and I put you down as hope- 
lessly useless, because I should like to have the useless- 
ness enlisted on my own behalf.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t speak of impossible things,” she 
replied, impatiently. 

“I think they are very sensible things, if you could 
only look at them in the true light. I’ve carefully ex- 
plained to you all your deficiencies, and then I’m ready to 
assure you that I’ll put up with the sum total of them. 
What’s the good of longing for Australia, where you 
would be a miserable failure, when you might stay here 
and be a brilliant success? If the cooking went wrong, 
we should only have to change our servants; if the dresses 
didn’t fit, we would send for others ; if I had the bad 
taste to fall ill, you could get a sister from some hospital, 
by telegram, in a few hours, and need never show your 
face in the sick-room. In short, if you had the common- 
sense to marry me, your many deficiencies might go un- 


140 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


discovered ; you might almost forget them, and learn to 
believe in yourself. You have that air of being dissatis- 
fied with the proceedings of other persons, and of being 
able to do things better if you would so condescend, 
which would pass you off splendidly — in a suitable situa- 
tion — as a competent person. And I would give you my 
word of honor to tell no one what an imposition you 
were.” 

“Oh, Jack, Jack !” said Kate, with a pleasant, ringing 
laugh, “ did ever anybody persist in repeating a proposal 
of marriage in such a fashion as yours ?” 

“It’s a ‘declared passion,”’ Jack replied, gravely; 
“ that’s the term our grandfathers used. And you ought 
to treat my ‘ declared passion ’ with more respect. Y our 
aunts ‘ favor ’ it, you know ; and I’ve no doubt your fa- 
ther would be exceedingly glad to hand you over to me, 
and solve the problem in that way.” 

“You go too far,” said Kate, with a sudden change of 
tone. “ I am proud of my father ; he is the only man in 
the world I care for. I will never marry so long as he is 
alive, and may want me.” 

“I may well speak ill of him,” said Jack, in a low voice ; 
“ he is the most dangerous rival I have.” 

“ The only one,” said Kate, proudly. 

They went on silently for a time ; then Kate turned to 
her companion with an earnest look of inquiry. 

“Jack,” she said, “you think my father doesn’t care 
for me, doesn’t want me ; do you think he would care 
more if he knew me ?” 

“That is a hard question to answer,” said Jack, in a 
low voice. “From my point of view I should say — yes; 
he would certainly care for you if he knew you ; he 
couldn’t help it. But then I remember that he knew 
your mother — and went away without her.” 

Kate' turned from him with a sigh, and looked at the 
landscape again. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


141 


CHAPTER II. 

THE FIRST MEETING. 

They had reached a place where the road crossed the 
river, and beyond the bridge a second road branched off 
to the right. Mechanically they pulled up their horses 
at this spot, and stood silent for a moment, as if it had 
not been decided which way they were to go. 

“Shall we go round Elmrigg this morning?” Jack 
asked. “ It’s a long time since we’ve been that way, and 
you used to like it.” 

“Yes,” Kate answered, shaking off her gravity in order 
to devote herself to the business of the morning ; “ I 
should like a good canter and a breezy view. But I shall 
be late for lunch. I ought to have told Aunt Susie.” 

“I’ll ride back, if you like, and tell her; it won’t take 
long.” 

“ Thank you, if you don’t mind,” she answered ; where- 
upon he turned his horse’s head round, and was gone in a 
moment. 

She remained on the bridge, where the road was raised 
a little over the arch in ancient fashion, and the trees 
were so low that she could touch the branches easily with 
her riding- whip. Beneath her the river rushed on in cool 
shadow over brown stones ; some cows had wandered 
from the edge of the meadow, and stood in the clear wa- 
ter just below the bridge. 

A little farther on was a gate, leading to a foot-path 
which crossed the meadows by a straight line, and so 
avoided the curve of the river. 

A man had for some minutes been leaning over this 
gate, looking at the view ; he had been near enough to 
hear the sound of the horses’ hoofs, and he had watched 
with interest the approaching equestrians. When Jack 
turned back and left Kate alone, this man rose and came 


142 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


towards her slowly. He was not an ordinary looking 
person ; he was tall, of a fine figure, although he stooped 
a little; he had a massive head, a striking cast of features, 
and an abundance of iron-gray hair. He had about him 
the air of a stranger and a traveller, a man also unused to 
cities. His general manner was one of easy courage and 
self-possession, yet at this moment there was something- 
doubtful, almost anxious, in the way he looked at Kate, 
She, for her part, did not notice him ; she was gazing up 
into the green foliage over her head. At intervals she 
amused herself by striking at a branch, and watching the 
leaves drop into the stream below, where they eddied 
round and floated away. In doing this the third time, 
her whip caught in a twig for a moment, was snatched 
out of her hand, and then fell into the river underneath. 

“How stupid of me l” she said to herself; “and Jack 
isn’t here to get it out.” 

She looked over the low wall into the stream to see 
whether the whip was being carried away ; then she 
glanced along the lane, and saw the stranger, who had 
come up and stood in the dust of the road, somewhat 
dusty and travel-stained himself, looking at her with hes- 
itation. 

She thought that she took him in at a glance ; he was 
of that class to whom she was accustomed to be very 
courteous, the class she had heard praised as “ intelligent,” 
“respectable,” “independent;” whereas the phrases of 
adulation for her own people were “ clever,” “ admirable,” 
“generous,” or “energetic.” Virtues have different 
names as they are found in different sets ; and when we 
praise a man for being honest, it is evident that we don’t 
consider him an equal, or we should have changed the ad- 
jective to honorable ! 

This stranger was apparently of the truly intelligent, 
respectable, and independent class ; he was one, therefore, 
whom she need have no bashfulness about accosting. 

“ Oh !” — she said it as a note of recognition signifying 
that she perceived his presence — “perhaps you’ll be so 
very kind as to get my whip out of the water before it is 
carried away?” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


143 


She spoke in a clear, commanding, and withal courteous 
voice. Evidently she had no scruple about asking the 
favor, and no doubt about its being granted. He looked 
at her with surprise, not unmingled with admiration, for 
she sat well on her horse, and glanced down upon him 
with the air of a civilly-disposed queen. Standing on the 
ground she would have seemed slight and girlish beside 
his tall and massive figure ; but as it was, even her height 
predominated, and added to the impression made by 'her 
air of haughty yet gracious ease. 

He looked at her, and knew that she was his daughter ; 
and, without a word, he made his way to the river’s brink 
and rescued the fallen whip. 

She sat on her horse above the bridge meanwhile, look- 
ing a picture of youthful pride and beauty. She was of 
the age and type in which pride seems least obnoxious ; it 
may be said that its ignorance makes its innocence. She 
knew so little of the world that she could be forgiven for 
looking at it haughtily ; she still felt herself separate and 
distinct, with the right to judge and condemn. Later on 
she would be bewildered by her own inconsistencies, sad- 
dened by her own failures ; she would see in the weakness- 
es of others a reflection of her own ; she would feel that 
she, too, was only one little vein through which the pulsa- 
tion of humanity flowed, one with the rest, with the mass 
of things that she hated or despised, having only a limited 
power to live her own life and follow her own ideals. But 
she still was inexperienced enough to imagine that because 
she disliked whatever was ignoble she could keep her life 
free from it — because she admired what was noble her life 
would be akin to it. Meanwhile she looked with the 
cruel indifference of splendid and untried intentions on 
those lives which were failures and compromises — perhaps 
also on those lives which were outside her own sphere, 
and so, she fancied, below her own level of opportunities. 

Henry Dilworth came slowly up the bank with the whip 
in his hand— slowly, because he wanted to prolong the 
time, as well as because he was tired, and at this moment 
discouraged. Never before had he felt so diffident and 
uncertain. With his wife he had been a great power and 


144 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


influence, even when he had failed to satisfy her ; with 
his wife’s friends he had been made to feel that there was 
too much of him rather than too little ; that if he could 
have been subdued he would have been tolerable. But 
he had looked in his daughter’s face, and felt that to her 
he was nothing. 

It was a strange experience, and many strange thoughts 
went through his mind as he came up the bank, so slowly 
that Kate thought to herself, with some compunction, 

“ Perhaps he is tired ; he looks as if he had come a long 
way, and he is an old man ; his hair is quite gray.” 

There was something, therefore, very graciously kind in 
her manner as she stooped to take the whip, and said, in 
the sweetest voice he had ever heard, for all its ring of 
imperiousness, “I’m sorry to have troubled you. Have 
you wet your feet ?” 

He looked down at his boots absently. They were 
large and clumsy ; the dust on them had been changed to 
mud by contact with the water. 

“ It doesn’t matter ; I’m used to it,” he said ; and his 
eye fell on her delicate little foot resting on the stirrup. 
He remembered the small and pretty feet of Agnes, but 
this foot was different : there was character in it, as there 
was character in the turn of Kate’s head and the tone of 
her voice; this foot, though so dainty, was not helpless; 
it was used to going its own way, and doing its own 
work. 

Then he raised his eyes to her face again, and looked at 
her sadly, and he said to himself, “It is as Miss Leake 
told me ; she is outside my life ; she doesn’t even imagine 
that I could have anything to do with hers.” 

She was certainly more beautiful than he had expected, 
for the lovely lines of her mother’s face were reflected in 
hers, with all the commanding style which had belonged 
to her aunt Kate. And her haughtiness was not shallow 
as the first Kate’s had been ; that, indeed, had never im- 
pressed Henry Dil worth much, or embarrassed him at all; 
it had been fitful and capricious, without foundation of 
character. But here, in his own daughter, he found the 
manner repeated with meaning behind it. There was all 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


145 


the graceful sweetness of his wife also ; and he did not 
know that it was his own dignity of character, blending 
with those two unlike types, which shone out in his daugh- 
ter’s looks, and made her so impressive and unapproacha- 
ble. She had done nothing, so far, to distinguish herself 
or prove her superiority in any direction ; but she had a 
simplicity and unselfishness of purpose which inspired her 
with genuine self-respect, and seemed to give her a right 
to hold others aloof, and to make a little solitude — a sep- 
arate atmosphere, so to speak — around herself, when she 
felt so disposed. 

“ Kate doesn’t know her own value,” Miss Leake used to 
say. “ She is made to shine in society, and she would 
like to throw all her gifts away where they wouldn’t be 
understood.” 

But it was precisely that capability of throwing her 
gifts away in a useful current that inspired with beauti- 
ful life the ornamental parts of her character and manner. 
Those ornamental parts are apt, in highly civilized socie- 
ties, to survive the useful life they are meant to beautify. 
The more important qualities get cultivated out in some 
carefully educated families ; and it had been so to a cer- 
tain degree with Miss Leake’s younger sisters. How the 
family type of manner had reappeared in conjunction 
with a strong type of character ; and Henry Dilworth 
was for the first time in his life discouraged and made 
diffident, by the very force of feeling and directness of 
purpose which his daughter had inherited from himself. 
It took another form with her, and it had been led into no 
useful channels, rather had it been corrupted and turned 
astray as much as possible; but it was real enough to 
have all the force of truth, and was all the more impres- 
sive because it was innocent of any intention to impress. 
Kate was as simple in her gracious dignity to-day as her 
father had been in his unreserved kindliness years be- 
fore. 

He had only spoken those few words in answer to her 
question, but he still stood looking at her as if he had 
something more to say. She thought that he was embar- 
rassed or diffident. 


10 


146 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ Can I be of any use to you ?” she asked, politely, 
“ You are a stranger here ; can I tell you the way?” 

“ Thank you, I know it,” he answered, briefly. 

She looked a little surprised, but as he did not move 
she went on speaking. 

“That is a short cut across the fields to some houses 
beyond the river. But it would not save you anything 
if you are going into the Elmdale village. You seem 
tired. You have come a long way, perhaps?” 

“I am used to walking,” he said, with the same brevity 
with which he had before spoken ; it had, however, noth- 
ing discourteous in its simplicity. 

“If you take that gate and go through the field you 
can cross the river by some stepping-stones. It is pleas- 
anter walking, perhaps ; not so dusty.” 

He did not look round at the path she indicated. If he 
did not go to his daughter’s home he had no intention of 
passing it by. 

“ Thank you. I know the way,” he said, quietly. 

“You have been here before?” 

“Yes, many years ago.” 

He lifted his hat mechanically and moved on. It seem- 
ed to be with an effort that he took his eyes from her face, 
though there was nothing in his gaze that could embar- 
rass her. The pleasant directness of his look was the 
same which had inspired confidence in Agnes years be- 
fore ; but the consciousness of power was perhaps a little 
dimmed, the expression of cheerfulness a little saddened. 

Kate turned her head to look after him with wonder 
and interest ; and just as Jack reappeared in the lane, the 
stranger came back and spoke to her again. 

“Perhaps you can tell me whether Thomas Broadhurst 
still keeps the Red Cow,” he said, speaking with a quiet 
deference, which she could not classify as “respectful,” 
and yet which was not the manner of one who was her 
equal. There was in this man an indefinable mixture of 
humility and authority, the like of which she had not 
observed in any one before. 

“No; he died years ago,” she answered, promptly; 
“ but if you are going to the Red Cow you will be com- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


147 


fortable; some very nice people keep it now. Jane Clegg, 
who was our own house-maid, married James Dodd, and 
they have it. But of course,” she added, with a little 
smile at her own simplicity, “ you do not know who these 
people are, nor who I am.” 

He fixed his eyes on hers with his singularly direct look, 
and answered, quietly, “ I think so ; you are Henrietta 
Kate Dilworth.” 

She flushed to the temples with surprise, not as much 
that he should know her name as that he should utter it 
with such directness and without any polite prefix. There 
was evidently no disrespect in his manner, however, so 
that she let the latter peculiarity pass without notice. 

“How do you know?” she asked. “No one calls me 
by the first name; it was given to me after — ” she hesi- 
tated and did not finish. 

“Your father,” he said, and turned to go on his way. 

“How do you know?” she said again, quickly. “Are 
you not a stranger here ? Perhaps I ought to know you.” 

“You have forgotten,” he answered, quietly. 

“And you have seen me before?” 

She was persistent in her questions, because she felt 
that this remarkable-looking man could not have passed 
any time in Elmdale without attracting her observation. 
There seemed some little mystery about him. He was 
like no one else, and certainly was no native production. 

“ I was here years ago, when you were a little child.” 

“And you stayed, perhaps, at the Red Cow?” 

“No, I never stayed there.” 

But after all, when she came to think of it, it was not 
wonderful that he should have heard of her, should know 
her name and something of her history. She was an im- 
portant personage in the quiet valley, and might well be 
pointed out to strangers with her full designation ap- 
pended. Nevertheless, her curiosity was aroused and her 
interest excited. 

“ Perhaps my aunt would remember you, if I were to 
tell her your name,” she suggested. 

“No,” he answered, in his quiet, decided way; “it isn’t 
necessary to trouble her.” And he moved on, without 


148 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


any hesitation this time, with the air of a man who knows 
where he is going to. 

Jack Langford, coming back to rejoin Kate, took a long 
look at the traveller as he passed him. He was a signifi- 
cant enough figure, as, drawn now to his full height, he 
strode along the lonely lane with his head erect ; a figure 
significant enough to attract attention, even if he had not 
made himself important by speaking to Kate. 

“What a remarkable - looking man!” Jack observed, 
when he reached his companion. He drew up his horse 
and remained looking after the steadily retreating figure. 
“What has he been saying to you?” 

“He picked my whip out of the river for me. Then 
he asked who lived at the Red Cow now. He is going 
there. It’s very odd, because he looks such a stranger, 
but he says he has been here before ; and he knew who I 
was, my name and everything.” 

“H’m !” said Jack, thoughtfully, and with an observant 
glance at her face. “ It’s a curious thing. Does it strike 
you that he’s like any one you know ?” 

“ No,” she answered, with quiet interest ; “ I didn’t 
think so. Has it occurred to you ?” 

Jack lifted his eyebrows with a deprecatory glance. 

“ I’ve a vivid imagination, you know. I suppose he 
didn’t mention his name ?” 

“No; he said it wasn’t necessary!” 

“ Then you tried to find it out ?” 

“Yes; as he knew mine, it seemed only fair.” 

“You got nothing by your attempt, it appears. And 
now for Elmrigg. If we mean to make the circuit of it 
we must be off ; and we’ve a nice level bit of ground be- 
fore us now.” 

They touched up their horses into a gallop, and said no 
more at that time about the stranger. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


149 


CHAPTER m. 

THE SECOND TIME. 

It was late in the afternoon when Kate Dilworth and 
her companion, having made the circuit of Elmrigg, rode 
past the little inn kept by James and Jane Dodd. 

The Red Cow was a rustic-looking house with a porch 
on the roadside, made beautiful by clinging creepers. It 
had a second entrance at the side, where a flower-garden 
ran down to a point between the road and the river; this 
was the private door, reserved for the use of the little 
household and the lodgers, who sometimes occupied Jane 
Dodd’s rooms in summer-time. The gate into the garden 
was open, and Kate, as was her frequent custom, rode up 
the gravel foot-path to the door to speak to Jane Dodd, 
and ask for a glass of milk. Jack Langford remained in 
the road, talking to a tenant who had met and addressed 
him. 

“You’ll come in and see the baby, won’t you, Miss Dil- 
worth?” Jane Dodd inquired, as she brought the milk; 
“she’s not been herself like these two days; I think I 
ought to let the doctor see her. If you’ll go forward I’ll 
call some one to hold the horse.” 

Kate sprang to the ground and went in; she was fol- 
lowed immediately by Jane Dodd, and some minutes were 
spent in looking at the baby and hearing the account of 
its ailments. Kate had never adopted the character of 
Lady Bountiful, but she was on very friendly terms with 
some of the dales-people who had been thrown in her way, 
especially those who had been in her aunt’s service. They 
were all impressed by her distinguished manner and her 
airs of decision, and were inclined to believe that her ad- 
vice was good on all subjects, from toothache to the fittest 
names for the new babies, and the prices they ought to 
ask for their rooms in the season. Kate was always will- 


150 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


ing to give a weighty opinion on one side or another to 
the problems presented for her solution, but she was not 
disposed to originate general advice. “I should have the 
tooth out by all means,” or “ I don’t think you’ll get. a 
guinea for this sitting-room,” being the extent of her dis- 
course on such occasions ; the manner, however, in which 
it was delivered caused it to be generally received as the 
conclusive utterance of a great authority. She gave her 
opinion now promptly. 

“ The doctor is visiting at the Broadhursts’, just above, 
I know; you had better get him to look at the baby the 
next time he comes.” 

“Well, I am glad you came past to-day,” Jane dis- 
coursed, as she accompanied her visitor to the door. “As 
I said to James, I don’t like to let things go too long. 
And how is Miss Leake ? Quite well, I hope ; and Mrs. 
Dewhurst, too?” 

When they reached the garden, Kate’s horse was stand- 
ing by the door, the stranger of the morning holding it, and 
stroking its neck, as he looked at it with interested eyes. 

“ Thank you,” said Kate, with a bright smile of recog- 
nition; “I am sorry to have troubled you.” 

He helped her to mount; then he stood still, with his 
grave look of observation, which made her again fancy 
that he had something to say. His gray hairs, his strik- 
ing appearance — which was uncommon without being ex- 
actly distinguished — inclined her to treat him with special 
consideration. He seemed to her a superior man in an 
inferior rank of life, and she was inspired to show him 
the respect which he appeared to her to merit — the re- 
spect of the young for the old, of the thoughtless begin- 
ner in life for the well-tried veteran, who bears in his face 
the marks of a long battle not ignobly fought. It was 
not exactly the respect which she would have shown to 
an old man in her own position, not at all the respect she 
intended to show to her father ; that would be full of hu- 
mility and reverence, while this was inspired by a kindly 
consciousness of her own advantages. She wished to put 
this, stranger entirely at his ease, not to awaken in him 
any perception of his deficiencies. In the presence of her 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


151 


father she would have desired to please in quite another 
sense ; to satisfy him , to meet his idea, would have been 
her aspiration. 

And the difference of her manner was significantly felt 
by Henry Dilworth. His mind had been awakened to the 
finer shades of thought, and its expression in tone and 
manner, by his own strong feeling and anxious desire on 
her behalf. He was aware that this bright young girl 
was pleasantly polite to him as to one out of her own 
sphere, one who would never for a moment presume to 
judge or influence her in return for the gracious friendli- 
ness she showed to him. 

None of all this thought was, however, to be seen in his 
face as he looked at her with his serious eyes; and then, 
glancing away to the horse, observed, 

“ It is a fine animal. Are you fond of riding ?” 

“Very fond of it.” 

“ Have you been round Elmrigg this morning ?” 

“Yes. Do you know the road?”„ 

“Very well. It is a bad road. You cannot be a timid 
rider.” 

“ No,” she answered, a little proudly, “ I hope I am not 
timid in anything ;” for courage was a quality which she 
had cherished with secret self-congratulation. She felt 
that it was a virtue her father would require and ap- 
prove of. 

“ You are not like your mother in one respect, then,” he 
said, quietly; “she did not like riding.” 

Kate’s face flushed a little as at a personal accusation. 

“You knew my mother?” 

He turned his eyes to her again with a look she could 
not understand; it was full of a subdued sadness, of a 
feeling which had been content to exist long without 
speech, which had perhaps never known how to utter it- 
self; and he gave her one of those straightforward yet 
unsatisfactory replies of which she had already received 
several from him. 

“Yes, I knew her.” 

Kate looked down at her horse and stroked it ; she was 
interested, yet embarrassed. 


152 


1ST SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ My mother was very timid ; she did not like riding, 
or anything which required nerve,” she said, in a low 
voice, as if it were treason to speak in this way, while yet 
a stronger curiosity impelled her to pursue the subject. 

“No, she was very timid — and gentle,” he said, with a 
sigh which she could not know to be one of regretful re- 
membrance. 

She looked up at him quickly, with a new idea in her 
mind. 

“You like timidity and gentleness?” she asked. “I 
know that some persons think them the most womanly 
qualities.” 

“They were very beautiful and most womanly in your 
mother.” 

Kate’s horse reared a little, and pawed the ground, but 
it was because she had made an impatient movement of 
the bridle. She was thinking to herself, “All men do not 
approve of courage in women ; my father chose my moth- 
er and married her ; perhaps he admired timidity and 
weakness. Aunt Susan says all strong men like the qual- 
ities they have not got themselves ; perhaps he would 
think me bold and unwomanly. But no, no ; when I am 
so only that I may live his sort of life and be a help to 
him, he cannot think it. And a daughter is not like a 
wife; I don’t care if other men, men who want wives, don’t 
approve of me ; it is my father whom I hope to please.” 

Aik this flashed through her mind instantaneously. Her 
love for her father, her desire to go to him, having been 
so long subdued and silenced by those around her, had 
ended by taking possession of her mind like a passion. 
The dream of a life with him, a dream which she was not 
permitted to entertain openly, shaped all her thoughts, 
and influenced all her actions. Every new light which 
was thrown upon life brought his image into her mind 
and affected her as she fancied it might affect her rela- 
tionship with him. 

She was silent only a moment, and then she said, dream- 

i'y. 

“You knew my mother, I suppose, when she was young 
and very pretty ?” 


m SHALLOW WATERS. 


153 


“Pretty!” he repeated in surprise. It seemed a poor 
word to use in describing the woman who had awakened 
in him such reverential tenderness, whose love was the 
sweetest and most wonderful memory of his life. “No, 
I never thought her pretty.” 

There was some vague reproof in his tone which Kate 
did not understand. It could not occur to her that the 
epitaph seemed trifling, coming from her lips and applied 
to the woman who had been his wife and her mother. 
She had been accustomed to hear her mother spoken of 
in this way, as something slight, sweet, and helpless. How 
could she dream of all that this man had imagined her to 
be, all that he would have helped her to become if the 
chance had been given to him ? 

“ I always understood that every one found her so,” she 
replied, with a shade — almost imperceptible — of haughti- 
ness in her manner. 

She was thinking that perhaps she had been wrong in 
permitting this stranger to speak of her own family. But 
he was not abashed by her tone ; he even looked at her 
with something of dignified rebuke as he answered, 

“She was sweetness itself, if you mean that.” 

She turned her horse round towards the gate with a lit- 
tle air of vexation. She did not understand the situation, 
and did not like it. The stranger watched her still with 
his gravely-observant look, which softened after a moment 
into sympathy. She was so young, and evidently so in- 
nocent of intentional wrong-doing or saying that he could 
not blame her seriously. She merely repeated what she 
had been told by others ; that was apparent. 

He put his hand on the reins for a moment, and spoke 
with a certain air of gentle authority. 

“ If any one has taught you to think slightingly of your 
mother, don’t allow yourself to do it. She deserved your 
love and reverence.” 

Kate drew back haughtily. 

“ Sir,” she said, with head erect and a proud glance, 
“ what right have you to suppose that I need such advice 
about my mother, or to give it if I do?” 

He looked bewildered for a moment ; then an expres- 


154 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


sion of disappointment that was not humiliation came 
over his face ; something that was half remembrance, half 
regret. 

“It is true,” he said — “I beg your pardon ;” and he 
stood back on the grass to let her pass. 

She touched her horse with the whip, and with a silent 
bow to him rode out through the gate. Jane Dodd had 
gone back to her baby at the beginning of the interview ; 
for the greater part of it Jack Langford had waited out- 
side the garden, watching with close interest and a deter- 
mination not to interfere. 

“Well?” he said, when she came out to him, looking 
flushed and displeased. 

“ Let us go home,” was her answer. 

“Is that all? Have you quarrelled with your new 
friend ?” 

“ He is not my friend, and I should not quarrel with a 
stranger.” 

Having received this rebuke Jack said no more, but he 
thought his own thoughts as they rode home together. 


CHAPTER IY. 

NIECE AND DAUGHTER. 

The family at “ The Stepping-stones ” consisted now of 
Kate and two aunts, one of whom — Susie — was still un- 
married and the other a childless widow. The third aunt 
— Ellen — had died some years before. It was she who 
had been the charitable one of the household, who had 
visited the poor and shown a faint tendency (much chilled 
by Susie) to distribute soup and tracts. A few of her 
special pensioners still hung about the place, and trans- 
ferred their demands to Kate. 

Miss Leake permitted her niece to be benevolent to a 
limited degree, but would have been greatly displeased 
had she desired to erect charity into a serious pursuit. 
Kate had been educated, and she was carefully kept free 
for marriage, although this end and aim of her existence 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


155 


had never been disclosed to her. A certain amount of be- 
nevolent interest in the poor people who were thrown in 
her way seemed to Miss Leake a proper part of a young 
girl’s character. But she was not permitted to. seek out 
those who required help, nor to visit them in any organ- 
ized or methodical fashion. The vicar of the place would 
gladly have enlisted the intelligent energy of Miss Dil- 
worth in the service of his parish, but Miss Leake permit- 
ted nothing of the sort ; and the young lady’s own dreams 
and ambitions were turned in quite another direction. She 
was allowed to humor a few sick people, who regarded it 
as an honor to see the young lady by their bedsides ; and 
she was permitted to stand as godmother to the cottagers’ 
babies, when ambitious parents desired to secure this dis- 
tinction for their offspring. She was very popular among 
the poorer people, having that commanding presence and 
slight haughtiness of manner which enhanced the value 
of her affability and kindness. 

Miss Leake had never been so much liked by her hum- 
bler neighbors. She was not naturally fitted to make a 
good country lady ; for, with all her cleverness, she was 
very narrow, and could never expand into the genial 
neighborliness of a true daleswoman. She had so many 
little precepts and proprieties that she could not happily 
extend her acquaintance into circles not her own ; she was 
formed for an artificial life, where, in the midst of num- 
bers, she could conduct her own household on its own ba- 
sis, keeping it separate and alone. That comparative sol- 
itude of Elmdale, which permitted existence, so to speak, 
to run out in straggling edges instead of being confined 
in the strict circles of town life — where every one must 
revolve round his own natural centre or be lost in the 
vortex — this solitude and freedom only signified difficulty 
and danger to Miss Leake. She would have liked to ap- 
ply the little rules of life here as closely as in London it- 
self. 

She had not been brought up in the country, and had 
no taste for it. “ The Stepping-stones ” came to her as a 
legacy from a relative of her mother’s, and it had made a 
suitable retreat for the family on the death of its head. 


156 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Miss Leake had been happy enough there, but she made 
her happiness out of family interests and social connec- 
tions. 

After the death of her youngest sister, Kate had become 
the great care of her life. The brother in India was a 
bachelor ; Anna, her second sister, after a married life of 
some years, came back to “ The Stepping-stones ” a child- 
less widow. She was ready to submit to the amiable tyr- 
anny of her elder sister as she had done when a girl, and 
she fell at once into her old subordinate position. 

Robert, the brother in London, had many children ; but 
his wife was a fashionable, showy sort of woman, who 
managed her own affairs and brooked no interference. 
The London nephews and niece, who were also fond of 
showy things and followed novelties in taste and opinion 
briskly, engaged a very small portion of Aunt Susie’s af- 
fections. 

Kate was the solitary one of the second generation on 
whom she could pour the affectionate interest so abun- 
dantly required by the first. And Kate had been, and was 
still, a considerable cause of anxiety. She had so much 
“spirit,” as her friends called it, and was not easily in- 
duced to give up an idea once adopted. She was never 
saucy, as the first Kate had been, and yet was more diffi- 
cult to manage. She was apt to yield in small points and 
to remain fixed on larger ones, so that she could not be 
led blindly up any road while amusing herself with the 
details of it as the first Kate, and also Agnes, had done. 
These two had indulged in fancies and caprices about the 
trifles of life, but its greater questions they had not trou- 
bled to think out for themselves. Cruel circumstances 
had brought their happy prospects to a disastrous end, 
and now Miss Leake was left once more to build up a 
prosperous life for a young creature, and this time for 
one of a far less facile disposition than her first darling 
had been. 

The existence of Henry Dilworth in his far-away home 
was a great difficulty in her path. A father, though un- 
seen, could not fail to be an influence on his daughter’s 
life ; and it did not suit Miss Leake’s idea, nor agree with 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


157 


her principles, to nourish disrespectful thoughts of her 
brother-in-law in her niece’s mind. She herself spoke of 
him always with profound respect, as a remarkable man 
who was doing great and distinguished service for science 
in other lands. She encouraged Kate to believe that she 
might reasonably be proud of her father, and those slight- 
ing thoughts of him which Kate had guessed at were nev- 
er intentionally revealed. Nevertheless, her representation 
of Henry Dil worth’s character did him signal injustice ; 
for it depicted him as indifferent to domestic ties, and 
cold in personal affections. She spoke as if a young girl, 
even one who was his daughter, could awake but a tri- 
fling feeling of interest in a man absorbed in pursuits 
which influenced the world. Her talk of him was a con- 
tinual suggestion of the small amount of thought which 
he could give to Kate, and the danger of her becoming a 
burden upon his actions, or a drag on his career. She 
expressed her desire that Kate should not make him anx- 
ious, that she should speak of herself always as happy 
and satisfied with her present life. It was her continual 
dread that he might return to England and claim his 
daughter, which event would have been, in her idea, as 
fatal to Kate’s happiness as his marriage had been fatal 
to her mother’s. She felt that his return would matter 
less after Kate was married and safely settled at home ; 
therefore every year of his absence was a year of reprieve 
and of hope. Her letters to him, polite and formal as they 
were, breathed this idea from beginning to end. It was 
evident to him that she feared his return as a danger to 
his daughter’s peace of mind, that she looked upon his 
absence as a security for her happiness. There was an 
unspoken appeal to him inwall she wrote, which seemed to 
say “ Do not spoil this second young life, as you did the 
first, by your mistaken love.” 

And when he read his daughter’s letters he found in 
them no contradiction of her aunt’s belief. He was a 
stranger to his child ; and she had the awkward timidity 
as well as the proud reserve of youth. She always waited 
for him to want her, to speak the first word, and she 
would be ready enough to respond to his appeal. But 


158 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


she would never force herself upon him, never mar his 
career and baffle his ambition as her aunt had implied 
that she might do by the indiscreet expression of her de- 
sires. She would wait, and keep herself free ; that was 
all she could do. Meanwhile she fed upon dreams, which 
were a poor preparation for the reality. She thought of 
her father as a hero, misunderstood and unappreciated, 
and she was ready to throw herself at his feet in ardent 
self-sacrifice. Simply to make his acquaintance in com- 
monplace fashion, to humor his habits, to condone his pe- 
culiarities, these were things for which she was more un- 
ready than she imagined. It seemed to Miss Leake that 
fortune favored her plans in decreeing the existence of a 
second Jack Langford in Elmdale. He was the nephew 
of the first, the head of the family, and the owner of a 
good estate at her very door. He had been named after 
his uncle, who had been his godfather ; and he was a few 
years older than Kate. As a family connection he was ad- 
mitted at “The Stepping-stones” on a very intimate foot- 
ing, and he was Kate’s most frequent companion in her 
morning rides. Miss Leake held that it was ridiculous to 
keep a saddle-horse for her niece, as long as she had no 
brother or father to ride with her ; but the horse had 
been given by the uncle from India, during a two years’ 
visit to England. He had taken a great fancy to Kate, 
and made her his principal companion during his stay 
with his sisters. They explored the valleys and scoured 
the hills together, and after he left England the horse 
which he had bought for Kate was still kept in the sta- 
ble. Miss Leake regarded its presence with a secret in- 
dulgence, because it was the pretext for many mornings 
spent together by Jack and Kate. Their connection was so 
well known in the valley that their frequent companionship 
seemed natural to every one, and excited little remark. 

Nevertheless, Miss Leake hoped that the intercourse 
would end in a marriage, and such a marriage must in- 
sure Kate’s social safety, and render Henry Dilworth’s 
influence harmless. 

“ So very suitable, you know,” she said to her sister 
Anna, when they talked the matter over. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


159 


“Nothing could be more suitable,” said Mrs. Dewhurst, 
with emphasis. 

Young, Jack Langford, for his part, was quite willing 
to fulfil the expectations he had excited. Nothing would 
have pleased him better than to marry Kate and to es- 
tablish her for life in Elmdale. He told her so, and oc- 
casioned in this way their first quarrel. She chose to be 
offended at the idea, and he felt disappointed and hurt at 
her refusal of himself. Thereupon he forsook Elmdale 
for a time, and strove to enlarge his mind and mitigate 
his affliction by travel. He made his will in Kate’s favor 
after the most approved fashion of disconsolate lovers, and 
thought of joining her father in the wilds of Australia. 

The civilization of Europe satisfied him, however, and 
he returned to Elmdale to see if Kate hadn’t changed 
her mind. There was a little awkwardness on their first 
meeting, but in a few weeks they were surprised to find 
themselves as good friends as ever, and thereupon Jack 
proposed a truce. 

“ I can go on intending to marry you, if you’ll have 
me, and you can go on intending to live with your father, 
if he’ll have you. One of us must be disappointed — prob- 
ably both ; but we needn’t quarrel meantime.” 

So the situation remained. 

Miss Leake had been much disappointed by her niece’s 
refusal of Mr. Langford’s offer, but she had not felt it 
safe to press her advice on the wilful girl, lest she might 
create a grievance sufficiently large to be communicated 
to Henry Dilworth. She was proportionately relieved 
when the young people drifted back to their old terms 
of intimacy, and made up their quarrel. It could only 
end one way, she thought, however long it might take 
Kate to make up her mind. 

Jack Langford tried occasionally to better his position 
with Kate. As a very happy thought, he proposed that 
she should marry him, and he should take her out to her 
father. But she would not listen even to this tempting 
offer. 

“ I want to give my life to him, not to pay him a visit,” 
she replied, with decision. 


160 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


CHAPTER V. 

A BROKEN BRIDGE. 

Besides this reason, she had another. She was very- 
fond of Jack as a companion and friend ; she talked to 
him of things which she never mentioned to other peo- 
ple ; but she had a natural shyness or reserve which made 
personal familiarity obnoxious to her. It was inherited 
perhaps, in a new and exaggerated form, from her moth- 
er. She did not want to give any one the right to make 
love to her; she shrank from caresses; she had a preju- 
dice against kisses. 

Miss Leake, in spite of her affection, had not overwhelm- 
ed her with fondness, and since the days when she was a 
little child, and had sat on her father’s knee, she had re- 
ceived caresses from none but women. Even her Indian 
uncle did not presume on his relationship, but treated her 
with courtly politeness, as a charming young lady to whose 
society he was fortunate enough to have some claim. And 
in her dreams of union with her father she had no vision 
of persona] endearments ; she understood him to be ab- 
stracted, reserved, somewhat indifferent ; for had he not 
abandoned the sweet fondness of her mother? She was 
prepared to enter into his views, to aid his purposes, to 
administer to his comfort, and altogether to promote his 
happiness by her presence ; but she had no expectation 
of being petted or caressed, and no desire to be so treat- 
ed. It would take some strong emotion to break down 
the barrier of personal reserve which custom and nature 
had woven about the young and tender frankness hidden 
underneath. 

The name of “young Mr. Langford” was by no means 
unknown to Henry Dilworth even while he was in Aus- 
tralia. Miss Leake had confided to Kate’s father, with 
due cautiousness, her wishes on Kate’s behalf. She told 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


161 


V 


how the young people were constantly together, how 
happy Kate seemed to be in Mr. Langford’s society, and 
how likely it was that the friendship would end in a 
marriage, as Mr. Langford had long desired. Then she 
praised Jack, assured her brother-in-law that he was a 
young man whom he would certainly like and approve 
when he came to know him; she spoke also of his excel- 
lent prospects, of his suitable position. She also proceed- 
ed further to observe that it was very desirable for girls 
to settle early in life ; undecided prospects, uncertain po- 
sition having ruined many a girl’s health and happiness ; 
and then she did not speak of Agnes, but she knew that 
Henry Dilworth would think of her. While she dwelt 
on the advantages of a marriage with Jack Langford, and 
a consequent settlement among “ friends that she knew, 
duties that she understood, places to which she was at- 
tached,” she did not refrain from reference to other tri- 
umphs of her niece, especially those achieved on a visit 
to the London uncle. A baronet had, she understood, 
paid to Kate “ very great attention.” She felt that this 
would convince her brother - in - law of two important 
things — firstly, that she herself had no mere worldly am- 
bition, but desired only safety and happiness for her 
niece, since she could let the baronet go without regret ; 
secondly, that Kate was not fitted to be hidden away in a 
corner of the world cooking steaks and darning stockings; 
that she was, on the contrary, brilliant and accomplish- 
ed, formed to shine in the society which was her natu- 
ral sphere, and where only she could move happily and 
easily. 

Henry Dilworth understood it all. His mind, once so 
slow to perceive a hidden implication, an unspoken sug- 
gestionjhad been sharpened by bitter experience and keen 
disappointment. He saw the whole position from Miss 
Leake’s point of view, and he thought that perhaps she 
was right. 

Nevertheless he could not bear to take her word for it, 
and so he resolved to go to England and see. 

He did not send word that he was coming, and his si- 
lence did not arise this time from haste, but from doubt 

11 


162 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


and uncertainty. He landed in England in a condition 
of indecision which had been absolutely unknown to him 
in the earlier part of his life. In his youth prompt per- 
ception of the next thing to be done and cheerful readi- 
ness to do it had seemed essential attributes of his char- 
acter. Now he set foot on his native shore with half a 
dozen contradictory plans struggling in his mind. He 
would write to Elmdale — he would not write; he would 
do some business in London and go back to Australia 
without seeing his daughter at all ; he would send for her 
to join him ; all these schemes he' thought of in turn, and 
finally, without coming to any positive decision, but at- 
tracted by a desire beyond his control, he took the train 
for the north of England, with a portmanteau in his 
hand. The main part of his luggage he left in London, 
thinking he could return to it or send for it as events de- 
cided. 

He was put down at the nearest station to Elmdale, 
and slowly walked towards his daughter’s home. He 
could not even yet be certain that he wished to see her 
and so make an ineffaceable claim upon her. So far, she 
was free of all actual knowledge of him, and of all de- 
mands on her affection. Would such demands be painful 
to her, disastrous > her comfort ? If it were certainly 
so, he would gladly go back to Australia to die there a 
lonely man. But if, on the other hand, she was capable 
of loving him and of rejoicing in his love, what a treasure 
he would lose by his absence and silence! lie thought 
of a quiet home — in some near county — where he could 
rest from active work and be happy in his daughter’s so- 
ciety. There he could work up the discoveries he had 
made into useful form, and put his numerous notes into 
shape for publication. Possibly she might help him in 
that work, her letters being in his eyes beautiful models 
of composition. It all depended on her owrt feeling, on 
the way in which she revealed it in her greeting; for he 
was, on his side, certain to love her; even ugliness and 
bad temper would not have subdued his instincts of af- 
fection. 

She could not have the same feeling for him, and it 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


163 


might even be that the cruel idealism of youth would 
shut him out from her love and make her unhappy at his 
claim. He remembered her as a bright-eyed child, intel- 
ligent rather than pretty, and he could not, in spite of her 
letters to him, fill up the gap of years between that time 
and this, and realize what she must have become in the 
interval. 

As he approached the place where the foot-path to “ The 
Stepping-stones ” left the high-road, he heard the sound of 
horses’ hoofs, and he was startled by a thrill of recogni- 
tion when he caught a first glimpse of the two figures in 
the lane. He had seen some one who resembled them in 
other circumstances; they were like old acquaintances in 
a new life, and unconscious of the past in which he had 
known them. He was aware that a crisis in his life 
might be approaching, and that idea subdued him at once 
to an attitude of quiet waiting. He leaned against the 
gate and looked into the field to give himself more time 
for observation ; and the pleasant sound of the young 
voices came to him with the murmur of the river ; but 
he could not hear the words they uttered. 

This brief picture of the two figures was one suggest- 
ive of happiness and harmony with surrounding circum- 
stances. The lovely scenery in the foreground — wooded 
knolls, gray rocks, trees, and river — was completed by the 
glimpses in the background of noble mountains and pur- 
ple distances. And the life to be led in such a spot might 
be one of mingled refinement and nobility. Nature had 
its grandeur of aspect in this valley without having given 
itself up to ruggedness and desolation. And humanity 
here was trained also to grace and beauty; it had been 
subdued to harmonious movements, but was not necessa- 
rily without higher powers and possibilities. The young 
equestrians were evidently prosperous examples of the 
productions native to this place ; happiness was a natural 
thing to them, because they found themselves where all 
things fitted their capabilities and satisfied their desires. 
What was wanting in their life, and why should it be 
disturbed in its smoothness ? What had he, a rude colo- 
nist, to do with them or their valley? He was a bit out 


164 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


of another life-puzzle which could only be fitted into this 
one by deranging its pieces and destroying its symmetry. 

When Jack Langford rode away, leaving his compan- 
ion alone, Henry Dilworth turned from the gate and 
went on towards her. 

As it chanced, she spoke to him, she looked at him ; 
and he could stand and look at her. He knew then, with- 
out any doubt, that she was his daughter, the child of his 
love and disappointment. He had every claim on her af- 
fection, every right over her life, and yet he stood there 
as a stranger to whom she condescended to be courteous. 
The actual power was his, but she was apparently mistress 
of the situation. Her first words seemed to decide his 
fate ; it was impossible to reply to her kindly condescen- 
sion by the humiliating disclosure of their relationship to 
one another. Her complete unconsciousness of any pos- 
sible tie between them, as shown by the careless freedom 
of her address, put a strong barrier against the revelation 
of his identity. He felt himself what he seemed to be, a 
stranger, one who had let his claim on her love drift away 
to destruction. The thought of going on to “The Step- 
ping-stones ” left him at once ; if he could not claim his 
daughter now when they stood face to face alone, he could 
not permit her to find him awaiting her at home with a 
painful surprise. 

So he took his way to the Red Cow, not yet trying to 
understand his position, or to decide how he was to work 
his way out of it. There were strangers, new-comers, at 
the little inn now ; there he would not be recognized ; he 
could wait and rest, and think what course to take. 

It was still open to him to go away as he had come, un- 
known and unsuspected. He had seen his daughter, had 
seen that she was full of beautiful health and bright hap- 
piness ; he had seen, too, the man whom Miss Leake had 
described as his possible son-in-law, and he might be sat- 
isfied that* Kate’s prosperity did not require his presence. 
He was very much saddened, however ; for it seemed a 
hard thing to resign all claim upon this young creature 
while yet he was the nearest relation she had in the world. 
He had given up his wife, whether for her happiness or 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


105 


misery he had never clearly known ; he had for a time 
yielded to Miss Leake’s wishes, and resigned all demand 
on his child ; but now that she was old enough to decide 
for herself, must he give her up once again, when he 
needed her most, and had confirmed his affection for her 
by actual sight ? She would no longer be a vague image 
to him, her memory would haunt his loneliness ; he would 
always know all that he lost in leaving her. 

He established himself at the Red Cow, got out some 
papers intended for a geographical journal, which he had 
brought with him to put in order and send off. He felt, 
in his reluctance and indecision, inclined at least to linger 
in this quiet spot for a few days, resting and letting his 
mind grow to a wise resolve. He was weary and worn 
out ; disappointment tried him now more than fatigue, 
and the last twenty years of his life had made up in wear 
and tear of emotion for the peaceful progress of the twen- 
ty before them. His health was already broken, and he 
was well aware of it. The unusual power of his limbs 
remained to him for occasional use; but if the muscles 
were right, the vital energy was gone ; he was vaguely 
conscious of the fact that a prolonged life or a speedy 
death awaited him, according as he fashioned his manner 
of living in the immediate future. Life, with his daugh- 
ter’s affection to brighten it, might be a precious thing ; 
but life spent in cherishing itself alone would be impos- 
sible to him. If no happy home awaited him he must go 
back to die in harness. 

He worked at his papers a little; but he was restless 
and abstracted. In the evening he left them for a lonely 
ramble on the hill-side, over the roads he had known long 
before. One or two peasants looked at him with wonder 
and half recognition, but he was sufficiently altered to es- 
cape being actually known. His hair was gray, he had 
grown a beard, and he stooped a little ; the long swing 
of his powerful limbs was made with a slight appearance 
of effort. The last fifteen years had changed him from a 
man who had hardly reached middle-age to one who was 
already old. 

The sight of old scenes and the fresh air of the mount- 


166 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


ain revived him a little ; fatigued in body, but somewhat 
more hopeful in spirit, he awaited the coming of a new day. 

The new day when it came brought a slight adventure. 
A violent thunder-storm in the course of the night threw 
down a large tree on the bank of the river a little above 
the inn ; and this tree destroyed in its fall a foot-bridge 
across the stream. It was connected with a path coming 
along the hill-side down to the valley, and its destruction 
cut off communication between the two sides of the river 
at this spot. In the course of the morning a boy belong- 
ing to the Red Cow reported that he had just seen from 
the high-road a lady descending Elmrigg towards the 
foot-path. 

“It looked like Miss Dilworth,” he remarked, “ and if 
it is, she’s not heard of the break, and will have to go 
round by the upper bridge.” 

Henry Dilworth, hearing this, took up his hat and made 
his way to the broken bridge. He reached it a few min- 
utes before Kate appeared on the other side of the water. 
She wore a pretty morning dress, and walked with that 
erect and graceful step which gave her an air of distinc- 
tion that was independent of beauty. 

She paused at the bridge with a look of surprise and 
perplexity, advanced cautiously for a foot or two on the 
broken timber to reconnoitre, and then became aware that 
her new acquaintance of the day before was drawing off 
his boots on the opposite bank. She stood still to watch, 
and he made no sign of perceiving her, or of acting on 
her account. He stepped into the water with his stock- 
inged feet and proceded cautiously to wade across. The 
river came round a curve at this point, and rushed be- 
tween its banks with some depth and violence, but its wa- 
ter was beautifully clear and every pebble at the bottom 
was seen, lying golden brown, or mossy green, or blue 
gray, under the sparkling surface. It seemed to Henry 
Dilworth a mere brooklet, for it came only above his 
knees, and he had been accustomed to swim strong and 
broad torrents. He was across directly ; and while Kate 
was still wondering what his purpose could be, he had be- 
gun to speak. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


167 


“ There’s been an accident here in the night ; of course 
you didn’t know of it. But I can easily take you across.” 

“ Oh no,” said Kate, “ I couldn’t think of it ; I hope you 
didn’t come on purpose.” 

He smiled without answering. There was a strength 
of will in his smile and in his manner which conquered 
her as it had conquered her mother long before. She was 
unaware of the conscious authority with which he looked 
at her, but she yielded to it as if she had known what it 
meant. 

“If you will put your hand on my shoulder and keep 
quiet, you sha’n’t even wet your feet.” 

“ But it isn’t worth while.” 

“ It is quite easy. That will do. It would have been 
a pity for you to go round.” 

He stepped into the stream as if he found her a very 
light burden to carry ; but a strong emotion disturbed 
and weakened him at the moment. All his instincts of 
tenderness were roused by the situation, by the touch of 
her arm on his neck, the softness of her breath on his 
cheek. In the swiftest part of the stream he stood still. 
A strange giddiness and blindness, such as he had felt 
once or twice before, seized him there ; but he gave no 
sign of it, and, after waiting a moment to recover himself, 
he went on easily and put he*’ down on the bank. 

“ Thank you very much,” said Kate, fixing bright eyes 
of wonder upon him ; “it was so very much to do just to 
save me a walk.” 

“It was nothing,” he said, and he walked back with 
her to the Red Cow in silence. Then he said good-morn- 
ing to her and stood at the gate watching her walk quiet- 
ly away. 

She looked round, then came back, and seeing him still 
there said, with a heightened color, 

“ Hadn’t you better go in and change your things ? 
They are so very wet. You might take cold.” 

He looked down at his own feet as if roused to a con- 
sciousness of their condition. 

“ It is nothing,” he answered, “ I am used to it.” 

« But—” 


168 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ But I’ll change them if you like.” 

He turned and went in-doors accordingly, but when he 
reached his own room he appeared to forget what he had 
come for. He sat down on a chair by the table, put his 
head on his hand, and plunged at once into abstracted 
thought. He no longer remembered his daughter’s sug- 
gestion, nor his own intention of acting upon it. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A LONELY OLD AGE. 

Kate had already reported at home something of her 
first meeting with the stranger, without arousing the 
alarm or suspicion of her aunt. For Miss Leake’s shrewd- 
ness was tempered by dulness ; she was quick - sighted 
where her vigilance had been roused, but sometimes very 
blind in other directions. Therefore when her niece told 
her of some old man who had asked about the Red Cow, 
and who seemed to remember her mother very well, Miss 
Leake did not even try to think who it could be. 

“Everybody knew your mother, of course,” she said; 
“people who never spoke to her were glad to get a look 
at her ; and some of the fa^ms have changed hands sev- 
eral times. If this man lived here twenty years ago he 
would be sure to know your mother. Everybody noticed 
her ; there wasn’t such another girl in Elmdale.” 

When, however, the adventure of the broken bridge 
was related to her, she thought it right to show some dis- 
pleasure. 

“ I wish, Kate, that you wouldn’t put yourself in such 
difficulties ; I shall be obliged to forbid you to go out 
alone, or at least to go up the hill-sides so recklessly.” 

“There was not any difficulty, aunt; I should only have 
had to go round by the other bridge, and be late for 
lunch.” 

“Then why didn’t you go round?” 

Kate had no reason to give except one, which, if she 
had uttered it, would have astonished herself as well as 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


169 


her aunt ; some one — with no authority over her at all — 
had spoken authoritatively, and she had obeyed ; that was 
the simple truth of the matter. 

On the next day — the second day after Henry Dil- 
worth’s arrival in Elmdale — she was riding past the Red 
Cow with Jack Langford, when Jane Dodd stopped her 
at the gate, and asked her to go in again and see the 
baby. 

“Not that it’s so much the baby, after all,” Jane ex- 
plained when they were inside, “as it’s the old gentle- 
man staying here who is ill ; and I’m sure he ought to 
see the doctor, but he won’t hear of it. He’s asked more 
than once if you’d be looking in to see the baby, which 
makes me think that if you’d advise him about the doctor 
he might listen.” 

“Oh no, Jane, why should he? I couldn’t do such a 
thing,” Kate answered, quickly. 

Meanwhile Jack, who had remained with the horses 
outside, received a message by a small boy to the effect 
that the gentleman in the parlor would be glad if he 
would go in and speak to him. He went with alacrity, 
having a very distinct suspicion who the gentleman in 
the parlor might be. 

Henry Dilworth was sitting in an arm-chair, with a rug 
wrapped about his feet. He had a look of great suffer- 
ing and exhaustion, and he did not attempt to rise. 

“I’m sorry to see you so ill, sir,” Jack said, as he went 
forward. 

“I have been so before. It will pass away. Thank 
you for coming to see me. I am a stranger to you, but I 
knew your uncle very well.” 

“Did you indeed, sir? He was a very nice fellow, I 
suppose.” 

Jack’s manner was genuinely respectful, in a pleasant 
though rather old-fashioned manner. He was aware that 
the man before him, if he showed symptoms now of weak- 
ness and indecision, had once been stronger than himself 
both mentally and physically; it was the decline of a 
Goliath that he looked upon ; and he admired the giant 
for what he had been as well as for what he was. He 


170 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


met with frank fearlessness the keen gaze fixed upon him, 
and he waited to hear more. 

“ Miss Dil worth is with you, I think?” the stranger said, 
with some effort. 

“She is looking at Mrs. Dodd’s baby,” Jack replied, 
with conscientious and commonplace exactness. If he 
guessed at the elements of a romance in the situation, he 
was not the one to feed it with fine words. 

“Is she fond of children?” Henry DilwOrth asked, 
remembering that his wife had never been so. 

“I can’t really say,” Jack replied ; “the mothers are, I 
suppose, and they get her to look at them.” 

“ She seems to be very good to the poor.” 

“ I don’t know that she is ; the poor people like her, 
and the rich too, but she is one of those persons who win 
gratitude easily ; she’s so uncommonly pleasant to look 
at, such a very charming young lady altogether, don’t you 
know?” 

“Ah !” said Henry Dilworth, quickly, “you find her so, 
do you?” 

“ I should have a curious taste if I didn’t, sir, don’t you 
think ?” 

“ She seems quite happy, quite content,” Henry Dih 
worth went on, without answering his query ; “ you are 
with her a great deal, I think. You can tell me if she is 
so.” 

“Well, sir, if you want to know, you could find all 
that out for yourself, I should fancy.” 

Henry Dilworth’s face had flushed a little at Jack’s last 
words, which he fancied conveyed a reproof, but his eye 
kept clear and cool. He was indifferent to Jack’s opinion 
of him, so long as he satisfied his own conscience. He 
had only one vulnerable point in the armor of simplicity 
and strength with which he had long met the world ; but 
he had been struck hard in that one point; it had once 
been the love of his wife, it was now the love of his 
daughter. The dissatisfaction of one or the other was 
the knife which could cut off the magic locks of Samson, 
and leave him to stumble blindly — but never ignobly — to 
his end. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


171 


“You think it strange, perhaps, that I should ask such 
questions. Some day you will know that I am not taking 
an unwarrantable liberty.” 

“I didn’t suppose it. I meant just what I said, that 
you could find out these things for yourself, sir.” 

“ I may not have the time or opportunity. I am obliged 
to you for coming to see me. I wanted to speak to you 
and look at you.” 

“ I hope you are satisfied,” Jack said, with a glance of 
subdued amusement. 

“Yes, I think you are an honest man.” 

This strange remark was uttered with a quietness that 
robbed it of its impertinence. 

“ Is there anything an honest man could do for you, 
sir?” Jack inquired. “You are here alone, and ill.” 

“ There is certainly nothing that a dishonest man could 
do,” Henry Dilworth answered, with a slight smile ; “and 
as for you, if there’s anything you can do for me, it will 
be done without my asking.” 

“ I take it as a compliment that you think so,” said the 
younger man, gravely. 

“Are you here, Jack?” uttered a voice at the door at 
that moment. 

“Yes; come in,” he answered, briskly throwing the 
door open. 

Kate stood on the threshold. There was an air of shy- 
ness and hesitation about her, but the eyes of the stranger 
met hers and drew her forward. They were the eyes of 
a man who had long been hungry for what he now saw, 
but who was so evidently sad and limited in hope that even 
the satisfaction of his desires did not imply happiness. 

“I am sorry you are ill,” Kate said, as she advanced 
doubtfully. “ I hope getting wet yesterday was not the 
cause of it?” 

“ It’s a strange thing if it was, for I’ve been used to all 
sorts of exposure all my life.” 

“ I hope you will be better soon. Don’t you think you 
ought to see a doctor ? Mrs. Dodd thinks so.” 

“No, thank you; I have been like this before, and know 
what to do.” 


172 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“Is there anything we can do for you ?” she asked, still 
with some timidity, and glancing at Jack for encourage- ; 
ment. 

“Nothing at all, except to come and see me again.” 

Kate’s face flushed a little, but she went on: 

“ Is there nothing we could get for you — jelly or fruit , 
or soup ?” 

“No, thank you. I have all I want; unless,” he added, 
with a sudden thought, “ you should make it yourself.” 

Kate’s cheek flushed again, and she answered with un- 
usual humility, 

“ I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t know how.” 

Jack uttered an impatient “Pooh!” and she looked at 
him with deprecating apology. 

“It is of no consequence,” said the sick man, with a 
little sigh; “I have all I want.” 

“ Good-bye,” said Kate; and then she repeated, “ I hope 
you will be better.” 

She stood a moment looking at him almost wistfully; 
she felt herself to be the indirect cause of his illness, and 
she put down to this circumstance all the humility and : 
desire to please which were contrary to her habitual 
moods; but she was actually under the influence of his 
strong character and feeling ; and she was vaguely trou- 
bled by a sense of the strangeness of the situation, without 
any recognition of the truth coming near her thoughts. 

“Good-bye,” he said, and he hoped that she would 
come forward and offer her hand, but she did not. She 
glanced at Jack as if to ask what to do next, and then 
went out. 

Her sudden docility and appealing looks at him seemed 
to have made less impression on Jack than might have ’ 
been expected. He did not take them as a compliment to 
himself at all. He said to her as she passed out, 

“If you’ll walk on, I will follow you directly;” and 
then he went back to Henry Dilworth. 

“ Sir,” he said, “ I don’t wish to show any impertinent 
curiosity, but I can’t help having a good idea who you 
are.” 

“ Then you will keep my secret,” was the quiet answer. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


173 


“I think that it’s a great pity it should be kept. Kate 
doesn’t seem to you all she should be; but you have her 
at a disadvantage — she’s true and good underneath.” 

“ I have found no fault with my daughter,” was the re- 
sponse, given in a singularly gentle tone. 

“ No, sir, you haven’t. But I think a good deal of her, 
as perhaps you know; and I don’t take it as a compliment 
to her that you don’t tell her who you are.” 

“I want to spare her as much as possible.” 

“She can’t have any feelings, sir, that ought to be 
spared in such a case. You don’t understand her. She’s 
been brought up to be what she is, and she has a kind of 
haughty way with her, I know. But it’s very shallow; 
it isn’t an inch deep. And there’s nothing she’s wished 
for so much as that you should come here or send for 
her.” 

Henry Dil worth’s face lighted with surprise. 

“Why didn’t she tell me?” 

“You see for yourself that she’s proud, and she thought 
that you didn’t want her.” 

“Impossible!” said Henry Dilworth, with energy; but 
he added, in another tone, “ She hadn’t seen me.” 

“Well, sir? I don’t understand.” 

“ You haven’t had my experience. No, I will wait. She 
suspects nothing, and this isn’t the moment to shock her 
by an unpleasant surprise. I’ll wait at least until I am 
well, then my claim upon her will be simpler.” 

“ I do think you are mistaken, sir. There’s no better 
way of making friends with a woman than being ill and 
letting her nurse you.” 

“Not with all women,” answered Henry Dilworth, who 
had his own memories. 

“I’m sorry you have formed such a poor opinion of 
Kate,” said Jack, persistently; “she doesn’t deserve it.” 

Henry Dilworth smiled at the young man’s strange 
championship. 

“At any rate I am much obliged to you for your friend- 
ly feeling,” he remarked. 

“ It isn’t much to my credit,” Jack replied, honestly, 
“ seeing how important your influence is likely to be tg 


174 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


me. Good-bye, sir, and I hope you’ll have changed your 
mind to-morrow.” 

lie took his hat and departed, overtaking Kate near to 
her own house. She was lingering in the lane with an 
anxious and dissatisfied look. 

“Did you think me very stupid, Jack?” she asked. 

“A nice young colonist you would be !” he growled, 
unmercifully; “couldn’t make a little jelly for a sick 
man.” 

“I could learn. I hope he won’t die. I feel that it’s 
my fault for going down to the broken bridge.” 

“ It was his fault more than yours, I suppose. It’s the 
sort of splendid knight-errantry, all about nothing, that 
ought to be confined to the ‘ shore of old romance.’ But 
there the ladies themselves always give the necessary care 
in return — they don’t refer the heroes to their cooks.” 

“ Oh, Jack, you aren’t kind,” said Kate, in a low voice. 

“Because I’m not sure that you are ready for kindness, 
or ought to have it.” 

They had reached “ The Stepping-stones,” and this re- 
mark concluded the conversation. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ENOUGH FOR A LIFETIME.” 

Kate sat in the drawing-room at “The Stepping-stones” 
that evening, her hands idle on her knees, and her mood 
one of dissatisfaction with herself. Her aunt was dissat- 
isfied too, and expressed her feelings in this way : 

“ I wish you would get something to do, Kate ; I don’t 
like to see your fingers empty. If you only had a little 
knitting or crochet in your hand it would be different.” 

Kate procured the knitting, but did none of it ; her 
mind was full of other things, and very soon an interrup- 
tion occurred. It was announced that the doctor had 
called, and wished to see Miss Leake. 

He had, in fact, a grave communication to make. Mrs. 
Dodd had become alarmed by the increasing illness of 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


175 


her lodger, and sent for medical help on her own respon- 
sibility. The nearest doctor was one who had attended 
Agnes Dilworth, and prescribed for the childish ailments 
of Kate. He remembered Henry Dilworth well, and, in 
spite of the change in his appearance, could not fail to 
recognize him. He had come now, with his patient’s per- 
mission, to inform Miss Leake of this unexpected discov- 
ery, and to make a request to her. 

Miss Leake received his communication with distress 
and dismay. 

“It is quite possible,” the doctor observed, “that in a 
few hours Mr. Dilworth may be very much better or — 
very much worse. He has had such attacks before, it 
seems, and got over them quickly; but his strength is 
broken, he won’t stand many of them.” 

“Yet he is not very old,” Miss Leake said — “hardly 
over sixty.” 

“ He looks much older.” 

“He used to be very strong. I never heard of him 
being ill at all ; nothing seemed to hurt him.” 

“ He has had a fine constitution ; but he has tried it too 
much, apparently. It might have been better if things 
had hurt him a little at an earlier stage. But he seems 
to be broken in more ways than one. He looks dispirit- 
ed, his temperament is altered; instead of being full of 
energy and plans for the future, he falls quickly into a 
kind of quiet abstraction and hardly notices what is said. 
If I had not known him to have been eminently successful 
in his later undertakings, warmly appreciated by the geo- 
graphical societies, and so on, I should say that he was a 
disappointed man.” 

“Oh no,” Miss Leake declared, “he can’t be that. He 
has always lived the life that suited him best and never 
failed in any way.” 

“ So I supposed. And he has had no money troubles 
or family cares? Since the death of his wife, I mean, 
of course — which occurred so long ago that it cannot 
count.” 

“ None whatever. He has more money than he cares 
to spend, and he was never ambitious in that way. As to 


176 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


other things, he has been absolutely free to follow his 
own plans without an anxious thought.” 

“ There must be something eccentric about him, or he 
wouldn’t have come over in such a sudden manner with- 
out giving notice.” , 

Miss Leake’s countenance flushed at this remark. 

“ He must come here at once. What would it sound 
like if he died at the inn ?” 

“ He can’t be moved to-night, and he doesn’t wish his 
daughter to be told who he is until he is better. He 
seems to think it would be a shock to her. He has a 
really morbid desire to spare her feelings, but at the pres- 
ent moment his wishes must not be opposed. Agitation 
and vexation would be fatal to him.” 

“ Yet you say that he wants to see her.” 

“ He has an evident longing for it ; and as he may not 
live until to-morrow, I think that for her own sake his 
wish should be granted. When she comes to know that 
he is her father, she will feel it a comfort to have been 
kind to him.” 

“ But how can I send her without telling her ?” 

“ Leave it to me. With your consent I’ll take.her and 
bring her back.” 

Miss Leake rang the bell, and requested that Miss Dil- 
worth should be sent to her. 

“ If only he had not come !” she could not help breath- 
ing in the moment of waiting ; “ it was so very ill-ad- 
vised.” 

The doctor looked at her without replying. He had 
observed that this lady expressed not a single word of 
sympathy for her brother-in-law, or anxiety for his re- 
covery. 

“ I begin to understand where the trouble lies,” he said 
to himself. “This fervent explorer is not such an indif- 
ferent father as we have all been led to believe.” 

Kate came into the room with a look of surprise and 
inquiry. She glanced first at her aunt, and then at the 
doctor, who advanced to meet her. 

“ My dear young lady, are you inclined to do a kind 
action ?” he said, looking into her face. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


177 


“ If I can,” she answered, with slightly heightened color. 

“Your friend at Mrs Dodd’s is worse, is very ill, and 
has a fancy to see you. I promised him that, with your 
aunt’s consent, I would bring you.” 

Kate looked at her aunt wonderingly, and then at him. 

“ Am I to go ?” 

“If you will. Put on your things as quickly as you 
can, and come.” 

Kate fled up-stairs and was down again directly, dress- 
ed for the walk. 

“ That’s a good girl,” said the doctor, drawing her hand 
in his arm and patting it encouragingly ; “ you’ve got 
some of the qualities of a nurse — promptness is one, and 
silence is another. Have you noticed, Miss Leake, that 
she hasn’t asked a single unnecessary question ?” 

Miss Leake tried to smile, and didn’t succeed very well. 
But the doctor never insisted on the part he gave to people 
being properly carried out; he was satisfied if they left him 
to speak and to act as if he had received the due response. 

When Kate was walking by his side down the lane, 
however (all unconscious of Miss Leake’s anxious face 
peering through the darkness after her), she abandoned 
her character for silence by observing, 

“ It is strange that he should care to see me. But he 
said that he knew my mother.” 

“ Yes, he was very fond of your mother,” the doctor 
replied, heartily. 

Kate fell into a reverie then, which lasted until they 
reached the Red Cow. The doctor’s reply agreed with 
an earlier fancy of her own. The stranger had been a 
humble admirer of her mother years and years ago ; he 
had never forgotten her, had never married, and coming 
back at the end of his life to die in his native place, he 
had taken a strange interest in her daughter. Probably 
the adoration had been unspoken ; it had been a silent 
worship of one above his hopes, but it might have been 
guessed at by her mother’s friends ; and now in his old 
age and suffering it was natural for them to treat his 
wishes with indulgence. 

When Kate entered the room at the Red Cow, she per- 
12 


178 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


ceived the stranger lying on a couch, wrapped in rugs. 
His face brightened as he saw her, and he said, 

“ Thank you for coming.” 

“I am glad if I can be of any use to you,” Kate an- 
swered, going forward and offering her hand. 

It was for the first time. He took it in both his and 
held it with a gentle strength, looking at her. 

“You are very kind,” he said. 

“Tut, tut,” observed the doctor, with friendly con- 
tempt ; “ she does what she’s told, and she’ll go on doing 
it. Now, Miss Dilworth, take that chair by the couch, 
and put your hand on his forehead ; let me feel it — a nice 
cool hand for a sick-room — and sit there until I come 
back. I have a visit to pay higher up. Don’t talk too 
much. It’s soothing treatment the patient wants. An- 
swer anything he asks you, but don’t ask questions your- 
self. That’s my business.” 

He went out, shutting the door after him quietly, though 
without any appearance of care, and Kate was left alone 
with the sick man. 

For a few moments he lay silent, with his eyes closed, 
realizing whose hand it was that rested on his forehead 
as no hand had ever rested before, since perhaps he was 
a tiny child in his mother’s care. He was soothed beyond 
his hopes by Kate’s silent presence, and it was some time 
before he cared to open his eyes and say to her, “ Do you 
often visit people who are ill?” 

“Not in this way, never before,” she answered, in a 
low voice. 

“Then it must seem strange that I should ask for you, 
that your aunt should let you come.” 

“No, they told me — ” Kate began in a low voice and 
then hesitated. 

“What did they tell you?” he asked. 

“ That you were very fond of my mother.” Her voice, 
though soft, was clear and easy to be heard. She knew 
that if she spoke at all it must be distinctly, that the sick 
man’s attention might not be strained to listen. 

His worn features flushed and his eye brightened at her 
explanation. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


179 


“Yes,” he replied, “I was very fond of your mother; 
and I have come a long way to see her daughter.” 

“ To see me? How strange !” 

“ Is it strange? I am a lonely man. I have led a lonely 
life. If I die to-night there is not a creature in the world 
to whom my death will bring any change or loss. But I 
should like you to know how much the thought of you 
has been to me, and that I thanked and blessed you for 
your goodness to-night.” 

“ It is nothing,” said Kate, wondering that he should 
speak so strongly. “Is there really no one who would 
be sorry?” 

“ I am afraid not — I should say, I hope not. But I 
don’t want to speak of myself ; my life is nearly over, and 
my work, such as it was, done. I like to look at you and 
to think that you are happy, that your life is beginning well, 
and that you have all that you want. It is so, is it not?” 

“Sir?” she said, doubtfully. 

“You are happy, are you not?” 

“ I have every reason to be,” she answered with a little 
pride ; for not to any stranger would she speak of the one 
thing missing. 

“ Yes, every reason,” he repeated, closing his eyes ; and 
after that he said no more. 

Half an hour passed away ; the room was dimly lighted ; 
the sound was heard of the river flowing through the 
darkness outside; now and then a little gust of wind 
rustled the leaves of the trees and dashed a branch against 
the window-pane. Henry Dil worth lay in a strange and 
peaceful dream. All the past swept before him with its 
changes and its contradictions; but through it all there 
was the consciousness of Kate’s hand on his forehead, and 
her eyes shining in the gloom. 

“ She will be glad that she came to-night, poor child, 
if the end is to be soon,” he thought, as her dress stirred 
faintly beside him. 

The doctor returned with a certain quiet bustle that 
was characteristic of him ; he was quiet for the sake of 
his patients’ nerves, and full of cheerful business for tho 
sake of their spirits. 


180 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“And how are we?” he inquired, feeling his pulse. 
“Better, quieter. You are a good nurse, Miss Dilworth ; 
you have behaved nicely ; you shall come again.” 

“Good-bye,” said Henry Dilworth, taking his hand 
from the doctor to give it to Kate. “ If I don’t see you 
again you will remember that I thought it worth while to 
have come half round the world for the sake of your kind- 
ness to me to-night.” 

“ Oh,” said Kate, “ it is too much to say of such a little 
thing.” 

“It is not a little thing to me. I have never had so 
much before. Perhaps I shall never have so much again. 
It is enough, I suppose, for a lifetime. Good-bye.” 

Kate’s eyes were full of tears as she left him and went 
out into the darkness. There was a pathetic history here 
which she did not understand ; for it could not be mere 
sentiment which made this man, who had appeared so 
strong and self-contained, speak to her with deep though 
subdued emotion. 

“ Look to your feet,” observed the doctor, as she stum- 
bled down the step into the garden ; “ a nurse always sees 
where she is going, makes no mistakes, and, above all, is 
not infected by the patient’s agitation.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A REVELATION. 

The next morning a message came for Miss Dilworth 
to the effect that the gentleman was better, and would be 
glad to see her in the afternoon. 

When, after lunch was over, she walked to the Red 
Cow, she found him sitting up in an easy-chair, looking 
pale, certainly, but very different from the sick man of 
the night before. He greeted her with a subdued smile. 

“ I knew I should soon be very much better — or worse,” 
he said to her ; “ to-morrow I shall be as well as ever, I 
dare say.” 

“ I hope you will, indeed,” said Kate, and she glanced 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


181 


at some papers lying on the table beside him. He had 
been looking at them when she entered, and had drawn 
them hastily together. 

“You have not been trying to write, have you?” she 
asked. 

“Yes, I have ; but I must leave it till to-morrow.” 

“Can I do it for you? You will have letters to send 
to friends who are anxious to hear from you.” 

“I have no letters to send, no friends who are anxious 
to hear.” 

“ How dreadful to be so lonely !” 

“ I am used to it.” 

“ But you were writing something,” she persisted. 

“ Yes, it was a paper which I promised to a geographical 
society. I have the notes for it here, but I cannot go on.” 

“Can’t I do it for you?” said Kate, quickly; “you 
might dictate to me.” 

He smiled at her evident eagerness. 

“ You don’t know how dull it is ; it would weary you.” 

“ It wouldn’t, indeed ; I am very much interested in 
geography.” 

“ This is not exactly geography ; it is on the habits of 
some animals.” 

“ I am interested in natural history too — very much in- 
deed. Oh, let me do it !” 

“Very well, you can try.” 

He pushed the pen and ink towards her, and a blank 
sheet of paper ; the written ones he kept in his hand. 

She sat down and began to write at his dictation, work- 
ing carefully and diligently ; but evidently the sick man 
did his part with an effort. His notes were rough ones, 
and he was unused to composing aloud, or even in the 
presence of any one else ; for this part of his work was 
the one least congenial to him, and had been adopted 
somewhat late in life, after his exploring expeditions had 
reached the ears of some members of a learned society, 
and induced them to appeal to him for contributions. 

Kate noticed the air of weariness and effort with which 
he put his sentences together, and after a time she laid 
down her pen, saying, softly, 


182 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ I am not tired, but you are.” 

“A little, but it can’t be helped. Good or bad, this 
paper must be sent away this week. I am much obliged 
to you for making it possible.” 

“ But couldn’t you give me the rough notes said Kate, 
boldly, “ and I would put them together and bring them 
back to you. I have practised composition a little, and 
it would be easier for you to correct and alter than to 
dictate it all. I would imitate your style as closely as 
ever I could.” 

He looked at her thoughtfully, and answered, 

“You shall try it if you like. But I will dictate the 
notes instead of handing them to you. That will take a 
very short time, and I can give you the facts in the right 
order. Then you can put them into what words you like. 
So long as it all reads correctly and in a straightforward 
manner, it will be enough.” 

On this new system the work was soon finished, and 
Kate carried off her raw material in triumph. Her task 
was simple enough. It w r as merely to supply the neces- 
sary auxiliaries to the verbs, and articles to the nouns ; to 
put pronouns where they were required, and to round the 
sentences neatly. For example: “habits social, colonies 
20 to 30 ,” could be transformed to “ their habits are social, 
and they live in colonies numbering twenty or thirty in- 
dividuals.” 

She was, nevertheless, excited by the importance of the 
undertaking. She shut herself up in her own room, studied 
White’s “ Selborne ” for an hour to see how the thing 
could be done in the highest style, and then set conscien- 
tiously to work. She wrote the paper several times over 
before she finished it to her satisfaction, and she was so 
much absorbed in her task that she resented interruption, 
and positively declined to go out riding the next morning 
with Jack. 

“What a thing it is to become all at once a distin- 
guished scientific w T riter !” he remarked, sarcastically. 
“I suppose that henceforth an ignorant person like my- 
self will hardly ever be admitted to your learned so- 
ciety !” 


IN SHALLOW WATEES. 


183 


“You may come with me this very afternoon if you 
like, when I take the paper back.” 

“ I wouldn’t for the world intrude on that great zoolog- 
ical interview,” he retorted; “but if you can tell me when 
it’s likely to end, I will call for you, and bring you home 
afterwards.” 

Kate set out that afternoon in high spirits for the Red 
Cow, with her precious manuscript in her hand. 

She found Henry Dilworth walking about the garden, 
waiting for her with an eagerness almost as great as her 
own, though the cause was different. 

“ I hope it will do,” she said, as they went in together, 
and she put her manuscript in his hands. 

When they reached the parlor, he opened the packet 
and turned the papers over, while she watched him anx- 
iously. He appeared to be looking at the writing rather 
than at the composition ; and indeed the carefully-formed 
letters, like those which had come to him in Australia 
from his “ affectionate daughter Kate,” were more inter- 
esting to him than the words about zoological facts. 

“Will you read it to me?” he said, giving the manu- 
script back to her. *Then he sat down on the other side 
of the table, and shaded his face from her view with his 
hand. 

She began to read, at first with a nervously trembling 
voice, but afterwards clearly and well. It disappointed 
her to notice that he evidently followed her with difficul- 
ty, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. Once or twice he 
fell into a fit of abstraction, and had to ask her to read a 
portion over again. He was particular, however, in his 
corrections, and several statements which she had misun- 
derstood he put in their right form. 

When she had finished he expressed his approbation 
warmly. 

“I couldn’t have done it nearly so well myself,” he 
said. 

Her face flushed with pleasure at the praise. 

“I am so glad you like it,” she answered. “ I tried to 
do my best; but it was new to me. I dare say I might 
improve.” 


184 


IK SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ You have done very well indeed,” he said, smiling 
and turning the papers over in his fingers again ; “ this is 
better than making jelly.” 

“I tried to do it well,” she said, in a low, pleased voice, 
“because it is what I have thought — what I have always 
wished to do for my father.” 

“ For your father?” 

He put the papers down on the table and she noticed 
that the thin but powerful hand which held them was 
trembling. 

“Yes, my father is very clever. He finds out many 
things of this sort, and I have always thought I might help 
him in writing about them.” 

“Then you have thought about your father?” 

“Could Ido anything else?” she asked. 

“ You have thoughts of being with him, of working for 
him?” 

She looked at him with a proud surprise. 

“ My great hope is that he may let me help him some 
day; my great pride is that I belong to him whether he 
wants my help or not. You do not know my father.” 

“Do you know him yourself — Kaie?” 

He spoke in a voice low and hoarse with emotion, and 
leaned over the table towards her. 

“Sir!” she said, a vague trouble in her face, as she 
drew back a little. “ I don’t understand you.” 

“Dear child, dear daughter Kate, don’t you know me?” 

She flushed to the roots of her hair, and then turned 
pale, and rose trembling to her feet. 

“ I don’t understand you,” she said. “ What does it 
mean? Oh — Jack!” 

For Jack had passed the window at the moment and 
she heard his step in. the passage. As he came in she 
turned to him with a breathless appeal. 

“Jack,” she said, “it isn’t true! That isn't my fa- 
ther r J 

Henry Dilworth had risen when she rose : he sat down 
now suddenly, as if some one had struck him a heavy 
blow, and he put one hand before his eyes. 

“ It is enough,” he said, in a quiet voice, which was 


Iff SHALLOW WATERS. 185 

heard distinctly enough in the silence ; “she thinks I could 
tell her a lie.” 

There was a pause, as in the moment after a great 
catastrophe. Kate was stupefied by bewilderment, sur- 
prise, and disappointment. That was her father, then, the 
man whom she had patronized and condescended to be 
kind to ; whom she had mistaken for some one in a differ- 
ent sphere, to whom her friendship had seemed a privi- 
lege, her visits an honor. That was her father, whom she 
must love and live for. She had liked this old man, and 
been interested in him, but she was seized with a shocked 
reluctance at the revelation of their close relationship. 

What Henry Dilworth thought there is not any need to 
say. 

Jack had not spoken. Kate knew from his silence that 
it must be true. She understood all at once why the doc- 
tor had brought her here, and her aunt had permitted her 
to come. She stood there speechless and petrified; the 
shock of her own emotion rendered her blind or indiffer- 
ent to the emotion of others. At last Henry Dilworth 
took his hand away from his face and spoke quietly. 

“ Dear child,” he said, “ I did not mean to shock or 
startle you. That was why I waited ; that was why I 
thought of going away without telling you at all. But 
the time seemed to have come; and you said you wished 
to be with me — that was because you did not know me. 
It is not your fault. It is only as — I thought it might 
be.” 

“Kate,” said Jack, when there had been a moment’s 
pause, and she did not speak, “ why don’t you wake up ? 
Are you made of stone? And this,” he added, with a 
gesture of contemptuous anger, “is the woman I tried to 
teach to love me ! She has no love in her.” 

“Hush!” said Henry Dilworth, quickly ; “don’t speak 
harshly to her. Don’t you see that it is all unintentional, 
and therefore sincere? Dear child, do not be afraid; 
come round here and look at me. How cold your hands 
are ! You had been hoping and believing something very 
different. The truth is like that often, Kate ; not what 
we hope, not what we wish, but the truth ; and we must 


186 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


face it. It is not your fault. You thought of me, you 
loved me when I was a long way off ; you will love me 
again perhaps in the same way. But for myself, dear 
child, I love you better for having seen you. You have 
done your best, you have tried to be good, and I shall re- 
member it all. I shall never blame you; don’t think it. 
And I do not ask you to forgive me for the trouble I have 
brought into your life, because it is not my will that God, 
having given me a daughter like you, has not given to 
her such a father as she would have. You will think of 
that afterwards. I am glad you were good and kind to 
me — before you knew. You will be glad too. Did I not 
tell you the night before last that it was perhaps enough 
for a lifetime ! No one shall ever hear me say that it 
was not enough. Now, Mr. Langford — Jack — will you 
take her home ?” 

She had stood looking at him in a stupid bewilderment 
while he held her hands and spoke to her gently. Now, 
when he let them go, she turned to Jack with a troubled 
face. 

“ I am sorry — if I have done wrong.” 

“ Do right, then,” was the brief reply. 

She turned to Henry Dilworth and looked at him wist- 
fully, hesitatingly ; some softer feeling stirred within her, 
and struggled against the shy reluctance, the proud shrink- 
ing that she had from any familiar kindness — a touch or a 
caress — to a stranger. 

His eyes met hers, with a look in which there was not 
any reproach. 

“ Good-bye, dear child,” he said ; “ you will go home 
now.” 

“ Good-bye,” she said, moving slowly away, and mur- • 
muring again, “ I am sorry — ” 

She paused near the door and looked round with a 
doubtful, troubled face, as if dissatisfied at this strange 
ending of a strange interview. 

He smiled and put out his hand in answer to her look, 
speaking softly and suddenly. 

“ Kiss me, Kate, before you go.” 

Her eyes dilated, as if with a return of the first sur- 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


187 


prise. She went forward in a mechanical obedience, but 
before she reached him she dropped her head on her 
hands and burst into a passion of tears. 

“Not now,” she said; “to-morrow; I will do it to- 
morrow.” 

Henry Dil worth’s hand fell again on his knee ; those 
tears of Kate, the first he had seen her shed since she was 
a child, and drawn from her by the mere thought of giv- 
ing him that tenderness for which he had longed so 
much, struck him a second cruel blow where the first had 
been enough. His hands trembled, but he kept his voice 
steady,, and spoke as quietly as before, 

“Yes, to-morrovi ; to-morrow will be the best. Now, 
sir, will you take her away at once f n 

His voice was that of a man with whom there must be 
no more trifling. Jack, who had said nothing for fear of 
making a bad matter worse, took Kate’s arm and led her 
from the room. 

When they were gone, and the door shut, Henry Dil- 
worth folded his arms on the table and put his head 
down on them silently. He felt like a man who has been 
sorely stricken and who has not a word to utter in pro- 
test. 


CHAPTER IX. 

REPENTANCE. 

In silence Kate and Jack walked the greater part of 
the way back to “The Stepping-stones.” Kate’s mind 
was in a tumult of mingled disappointment and remorse. 
Her own first impression of astonishment, incredulity, dis- 
may, still was uppermost in her sensations ; but dimly 
under her youthful wayward impulse of resistance there 
was the consciousness of a suffering greater than her 
own, and the perception of a nature be'side which her 
own capricious identity seemed a trifling thing. It was 
possible that the grief which she had created, and then 
ignored, was as large as the patience with which it had 
been endured; and her own disappointment was, on the 


188 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


contrary, as mean and as shallow as her temper had 
proved itself to be unreliable in the moment of trial. 
Was it possible that she, who had so long been proud of 
her father’s character, should be ashamed of his manners? 
And had not even these, in true refinement and gentle- 
ness, far surpassed her own? What was there in him to 
arouse disappointment or excuse unkindness? Nothing 
ignorant, nothing coarse, nothing vicious. He had, on the 
contrary, qualities the reverse of all these. It was merely 
the absence of a certain trick of manner and note of 
voice which had filled her with protest against his claim 
upon her. It was the crudest and most stupid of class 
prejudices which had induced her to embitter the much- 
desired moment of meeting, and to wound cruelly one 
whose whole life was a lbng claim to her reverence and 
affection. Was, then, her boasted freedom from conven- 
tionality only a miserable conceit? Had she failed in the 
very first opportunity of serving her father, and of sacri- 
ficing her feelings to his? 

“Jack,” she said, as she drew near her home, “ have I 
behaved very badly?” 

“You have proved all your talk about sacrifices for 
your father to be unmitigated humbug, and shown your- 
self to have less feeling than I supposed any woman 
could possess,” he answered, in a tone of dry disgust. 

His strong words flushed her face, and raised her head 
an inch higher ; for her spirit of self-esteem was not al- 
together broken. 

“You speak very plainly,” she answered. 

“Your actions spoke more plainly still just now. This 
is woman’s gentleness, tenderness, tact, self - abnegation, 
and so on, I suppose. I can only say that he would be a 
hard man who could surpass it in selfish cruelty. A gray- 
headed man, and ill, and your father ! But I presume 
that your fine feelings must be humored at all costs !” 

“ He was such a stranger. I was so taken by surprise ; 
and, after all,” she added, with an air of vexation ap- 
proaching anger in its intensity, “ it is not you who 
should blame me. You always wanted me to give up 
the idea of devoting myself to my father. From your 


IN SHALLOW WATEES. 


189 


point of view you ought to be glad that we are not likely 
to agree.” 

“ Is it so, indeed?” asked Jack, with ironical politeness. 
“It did not occur to me that my own advantage might 
accrue from the mortification and misery of that old man 
whom we have left behind us. Nor does it, perhaps, oc- 
cur to you that no man in his senses would care to mar- 
ry a woman who could not love her own father. Regan 
and Goneril, were, permit me to suggest, already wives 
when their filial treatment of Lear reached its climax.” 

“Jack!” — she stood still with flaming eyes — “you dare 
to insult me, and care to do it ?” 

“ I express my own feelings, simply, and according to 
your example. It is, apparently, the stamp of polite so- 
ciety. Mr. Dilworth, you may remember, subdued his. 
Or perhaps he hadn’t any feelings? They remain our 
aristocratic privilege !” He took off his hat with grave 
courtesy, and walked away. 

Kate turned into the garden gate, and went straight up 
to her own room. She could not bear to see or to speak 
to any one at the moment. Two ideas filled her thoughts 
overpoweringly : she had cruelly mortified her father, and 
had been bitterly mortified by her lover in return. But 
the first idea gradually grew and obliterated the second. 
The thought of the old man whom she had left alone at 
the inn took fast hold of her, and would not let her go. 
He was her father, her hero, the one person she had long- 
ed for, had intended to devote her life to. It was he 
whom she had suspected of being unjustly treated by her 
aunt, perhaps negligently loved by her mother. But what 
was their injustice, or their negligence, to her harsh un- 
kindness? It had never been in her aunt’s power, it 
could never have been her mother’s inclination, to hurt 
him as she had done. Her mother had at least married 
him, had taken his name, and linked her life to his ; and, 
however negligent and unappreciative her tenderness 
might have been, it must have been tenderness of a cer- 
tain sort, passive and receptive, if not passionate and gen- 
erous. 

It had, then, been left for his daughter— the daughter 


190 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


who had so long cherished the ambition of becoming his 
comfort and compensation — to strike him the crudest 
blow of all. She understood now how it had always been 
possible for smaller natures than his own to get the ad- 
vantage when their interests had clashed with his. His 
strength was shown, in his dealings with such natures, 
chiefly by his gentleness, and his love by patience. Who 
could doubt that his feelings were the stronger at the mo- 
ment when she was giving full course to hers ? She re- 
membered his silence, his hidden countenance ; he had 
neither spoken nor looked at her until he was altogether 
master of himself; he had answered her attack by the 
sheathing of his own weapons. 

And it was this man whom she had slighted, grieved, 
wounded with the cruel darts of a petty pride ; it was his 
large heart that she had struck at in her shallow fastidi- 
ousness ; while, all the same, he remained the one being 
up to the level of whose high principles it had been her 
ambition to live. She was grieved, ashamed, regretful. 
Never, never could she undo that afternoon’s work, and 
give to her father a love without the memory of any bit- 
terness or disappointment. What must he think of her, 
even while treating her with his large indulgence, and 
sparing her the shadow of any reproach? 

He had said that it was, perhaps, enough for a lifetime, 
enough to content him always, that she should have sat 
for half an hour with her hand upon his head. The piti- 
fulness of it overcame her as she thought of it, and she 
burst into passionate tears, no longer selfish and rebellious, 
but full of repentance and a desire to atone. 

“ How can I atone ?” she said to herself with biting re- 
proach. “Whatever I may give to him, he has more to 
give me in return. There is no possible atonement, ex- 
cept to take his generous kindness, and let him ignore my 
miserable meanness.” 

She had begged to be excused from going down to din- 
ner, and had rejected her aunt’s offer of sal volatile and 
eau-de-cologne. She only asked to be left alone. 

“I am sure something is the matter,” Miss Leake re- 
marked to Mrs. Dewhurst, “ for Kate wouldn’t open the 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


191 


door or let me see her. I believe she suspects the truth 
about her father, and is already troubled about, it. Why 
didn’t he go away as soon as ever he was tit ? Hasn’t he 
eyes to see for himself how unsuitable it is that he should 
stay here ? Or why did he come at all ?” 

Miss Leake’s anxious desire to secure to herself the care 
of Kate’s life, growing through the years, had ended by 
making her capable of an injustice which she would have 
scorned in earlier days. She had come to regard the fa- 
ther’s claim as unreasonable and importunate, a thing to 
be secretly evaded or openly resisted. His desires were 
as nothing to her, his comfort was a thing beside the 
question. Why should he interfere when Kate was well 
and happy ? This was a question which she asked with 
actual sincerity ; for she had succeeded in blinding her- 
self to the true view of the case, and to all the rights of 
her brother-in-law. 

Meanwhile, as dusk came on, Kate, sitting alone in her 
own room, made up her mind. She resolved to wait no 
longer, but to undo at once the evil she had done. She 
would go to her father and beg him to forgive her, and to 
love her, according to the largeness of his own virtue, and 
not the narrowness of her deserts. 

She put on her hat, and stole out quietly, anxious that 
none should see her, and ask her questions. When she 
was reconciled to her father she would not care what 
might be asked of her about the matter. She even hoped 
to bring him back to “The Stepping-stones” that night, 
and to take him into the drawing-room to her aunt in tri- 
umph. Her face flushed in happy anticipation of it. She 
was full of impatience now to take possession of him, to 
sit beside him, and make him talk to her. The look in 
his eyes when he said good-bye haunted and troubled her. 
She wanted to efface its memory by a happier experience. 
She had turned from him with shrinking coldness, but 
she was prepared to atone for her error now by rushing 
into the opposite extreme. She was full of the enthusi- 
asm of youth, which desires and expects to change cir- 
cumstances as rapidly as it changes its own moods, and 
hopes to undo mistakes as fast as it perceives them. 


192 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


The way to the Red Cow had never seemed to her so 
long as it did that night. She went onward with ever- 
increasing haste; beneath the trees, between the hills, 
now near the river, now farther from it. The shadows of 
evening lay upon the land; the hollows of the mountains 
were filling with darkness ; the voice of the river was 
waxing in strength, as silence spread over the fells and 
grew in the leafy coverts. 

She reached the little inn at last, and entered breath- 
lessly. She was going to ask for Mr. Dilworth, but re- 
membered that he would not be known by that name ; 
she said, therefore, that she wanted to see “ the gentle- 
man.” 

“Well, to be sure !” said Jane, coming forward in the 
dusty passage ; “what a pity you didn’t know ! But he’s 
left a letter for you, and another for Miss Leake — to be 
given to the post-boy. The post-boy hasn’t passed, has 
he, James? Then bring the letters here. I suppose you 
might as well have them now, Miss Dilworth, as wait un- 
til morning.” 

Kate stood in astonishment and perplexity, but she did 
not ask any questions. When the letters were brought 
to her she took them eagerly, examined the outside to see 
if the writing was what she expected, yet dreaded to see, 
then went to the door and opened hers, reading it by the 
waning light. 

“ Dear Child,” it began, — “ I have thought it best to 
go away. We loved each other when we did not meet, 
and we shall do so again. Your letters have always been 
precious to me, and you will write to me often, oftener 
than before ; that is all I want from you. I have not 
left you alone all these years because I was careless about 
seeing you, but only because it seemed to be for your 
happiness. So it still seems, although I would not believe 
it until I saw it with my own eyes. I know, dear Kate, 
that if I stayed in England you would be a dutiful daugh- 
ter to me, but it would not be for the happiness of either 
of us. I cannot say more to-night ; I pray God with all 
my heart to bless you, dear child, and to give to you by 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


193 


other means all that tender care which it is not permitted 
to me to bestow on you. 

“Your loving father, 

“Henry Dilworth.” 


CHAPTER X. 

ON THE HEIGHTS OF CRINKLE FELL. 

Kate read the letter twice, and turned it over in her 
fingers to be sure that there was no other, no relenting 
word. Then she looked at Jane, who waited near her. 

“ Has he — gone ?” 

“Very near three hours ago. He packed up his bag, 
and looked at the railway-guide. There wasn’t a train 
from the station to-night, but the last coach hadn’t gone 
to Oakdale. So he said he would take that, and go on 
from there by the early morning train. I made free to 
tell him he wasn’t fit for such a journey, but he said he 
was quite well now, and out of the doctor’s hands. He 
left those letters for you and Miss Leake, and another 
besides. This is the other. It’s a big one.” 

Kate looked at the packet pointed out to her. It was 
carefully folded, and addressed to the secretary of the 
geographical society. She did not know that it was en- 
dorsed, with paternal pride strange at the moment, “Pre- 
pared by my daughter, from notes supplied by me, and 
written in her hand.” 

This was the one service which he could boast that she 
had done for him; he could not send it out of his hands 
unrecorded. 

“And has he actually gone?” Kate asked, incredulously. 

“Yes, by the last coach, as I said.” 

Kate looked out into the dusky valley, where the shad- 
ow of the mountains lay darkly. He had gone beyond 
the mountains, out of her reach, and she was left behind 
in the shadow. That day had held the key to her happi- 
ness ; with the coming of night a door was shut in her 
face which might open no more. 

13 


194 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


She turned to Jane with sudden passion: 

“ Why did you let him go ? He was my father /” 

“Your father? I am sure we — none of us — thought of 
such a thing,” answered Jane, in amazement. “No one 
told us. But if we had known — begging your pardon — I 
don’t see how we could have kept him here, when he 
wanted to go.” 

“No, no, of course you couldn’t,” Kate answered, ab- 
stractedly. Already her burst of impatience was over; 
she had forgotten it, and was pondering on the possibility 
of doing something immediately to put right this very 
wrong condition of affairs. She was not prepared to let 
her fate or her father take her at the first hasty word, and 
leave her to repent it for the rest of her life. 

“Will you get some paper for me, and a light?” she 
said at last to the attentive and curious Jane. 

When the necessary appliances were brought to her, 
she sat down and scribbled the following note : 

“Dear Jack, — I am at Jane Dodd’s. I came to see 
my father, and persuade him to go back with me. I find 
that he has gone away , to Oakdale, by coach. He intends 
to leave Oakdale by the first train in the morning. He 
told Jane so. Of course this must not be. I am going 
over to Oakdale now, by the mountain path. I know my 
way perfectly well, and shall be there in less than three 
hours. I shall come back with him to-morrow, or, if he 
won’t come, I shall go with him wherever he goes. Cer- 
tainly I will never come back without him. Aunt Susie 
does not know that I am here. If I send home she will 
be alarmed, and do something foolish; so I am writing to 
you instead. I enclose a note left for her by my father. 
There was another for me. Will you take this to her, and 
explain what it means, and what I have done ? Don’t let 
her be frightened. Kate.” 

She gave this commission to Jack without the least hesi- 
tation, in spite of the unfriendly manner of their parting. 
It seemed to her at that moment a matter of small impor- 
tance what Jack thought of her, and she was sure of his 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


195 


good-natured acquiescence in any wish she might express, 
his readiness to do any service she might ask from him. 
Their quarrel could stand over meanwhile until some more 
suitable occasion occurred on which to remember it. 

She enclosed her own note and the one for Miss Leake 
in one envelope, and addressed the whole to J. Langford, 
Esq., Elmdale Hall. Then she gave them to Jane Dodd, 
and asked her to send them on to Mr. Langford in the 
course of an hour. 

“I am going farther up the valley,” she said, for she 
knew that to express her intentions further would have 
called forth tiresome remonstrances. 

She started from the inn with a quick step, anxious to 
get as far as possible before darkness set in. The road 
oyer the mountain was simple enough; the moon would 
rise in the course of an hour and a half ; she said to her- 
self that she was committing no imprudence, and had 
nothing to fear. 

When she left the shaded lane, and began to skirt the 
bare hill-side, she seemed to have gained a fresh accession 
of twilight; but soon she had to plunge into a gully down 
which a stream tumbled, and follow its course for some 
distance. The stream was hurrying down in swift swirls 
and sudden leaps, as if it had an enemy behind it which 
it desired to escape. But there was no enemy visible on 
the farther heights, only silence and solitude, and the sol- 
emn stillness of mountain masses revealing themselves 
from moment to moment as Kate made her way upward. 

She left the stream after some time, and turned towards 
the left, over the swell of hill-side. When she had made 
the climb over this trackless rounded slope, she would 
dip downward to a little sheet of water called 111 -head 
Tarn. She would then have passed the highest point of 
her journey, and must make her way down a stony valley, 
with a stream for guide and company, until she reached 
Oakdale. 

As she scrambled over the rugged breast of the mount- 
ain, she became aware that a little slip of feathery cloud, 
delicate as a bridal veil, and hardly larger, was streaming 
over the nearer top of Crinkle Fell. Behind her the last 


196 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


faint light of sunset lingered in the sky ; before her, in 
the east, were the masses of Crinkle Fell, and the little 
fluttering veil which might have been dropped by some 
heavenly messenger recently alighted there. The wind 
was from the east. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kate remarked to herself — as a 
daleswoman the significance of that little cloud coming 
up before the wind was not lost to her — “ when once I 
reach Ill-head Tarn I can’t go wrong ; I have only to fol- 
low the water down hill.” 

But the bit of .gossamer on the crest of Crinkle Fell 
was proving itself elastic, and spreading rapidly over the 
mountain front. It was as yet thin enough to be seen 
through, and the gaunt ribs of the giant hill looked 
gaunter behind its white transparency, more rugged in 
contrast to its soft beauty. 

Kate climbed onward as rapidly as her limbs would 
take her. This part of her journey was the one for which 
she needed light. She must take the curve of the hill at 
a certain point, or she would not find the little hollow 
leading down to the 111 -head Tarn. If she turned too 
much to the right she might lose herself among the stony 
buttresses of Lang Pike ; if she wandered too far to the 
left, she would find herself on the heights of Crinkle Fell, 
with its precipitous front below her. 

A stony mountain way seems longer, when it is being 
followed in a race with gathering clouds, than when it is 
leisurely taken in the pleasant light of a long summer 
day ; and now the distances seemed strangely to lengthen 
out, and the far-off landmarks to retreat before Kate’s 
hastening feet. The little mist on the summit proved to 
be the edge of a great and advancing cloud army. The 
mountain barrier had held it back for some time, but the 
crest once surmounted, it dropped heavily over in a roll- 
ing mass, plunged into the hollows, filled up the cavities, 
charged the buttresses, and rapidly covered the whole 
landscape with a white darkness. 

Independently of its danger, the mist was not a pleas- 
ant incident in a mountain climb. It chilled the air, cov- 
ered the clothing with moisture, and penetrated the lungs. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


197 


Its effects were distressing as well as perplexing to the 
traveller. Outside the masses of mist a faint moonlight 
was beginning to glimmer and take the place of departed 
day; inside was chilliness, blindness, and danger, and Kate 
was the only human being in the treacherous fleecy folds. 

She made her way onward bravely. When she started 
on her expedition, she had not realized that it might bring 
her into actual danger ; she had been glad to face the 
mere loneliness and fatigue of the journey, that she might 
prove to her father what she could do for his sake. She 
hoped to convince him that, in spite of her despicable 
conduct that afternoon, she was no fine lady afraid to 
soil her clothes or tire her limbs on his behalf. Now it 
seemed that she had ventured into real peril for his sake ; 
but she hoped yet to win his praise rather than his blame 
for her attempt. 

It seemed to her after a time, as she continued to clam- 
ber over rocky hinderances which increased in size every 
moment, that she ought to be getting near the tarn ; the 
ground should before this have begun to spread out to- 
wards the level top of the pass, from which she would 
drop to the edge of the water. Instead of that, the as- 
cent was getting steeper, and the ground more broken. 
She began to fear that she had wandered too far to the 
left, therefore she turned a little towards the right now, 
hoping to remedy her mistake in this manner; and pres- 
ently, to her great satisfaction, she found herself descend- 
ing. But very soon the descent proved as much too steep 
as the ascent had been, and the downward scramble was 
so difficult that ghe was obliged to cling to the rocks 
with her hands in many places. She was more convinced 
than ever that she had wandered too far to the left, had 
climbed much too high, and would now have a very steep 
and difficult descent to make before she could reach the 
shore of the tarn. 

It was an unpleasant situation, especially as she could 
only see the ground a few feet before her, and had no 
means of knowing whether she was only plunging into 
further difficulties by going farther down. 

At intervals the clouds became less dense, and wan 


198 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


ghosts of moonlight wandered through their folds. A 
moment came at last when Kate was standing on a ledge 
of rock, with her hand on a higher ledge, uncertain wheth- 
er to go farther or to return upon her steps. A rift in 
the clouds gave a chilly blue light ; the mist parted at 
her feet, and revealed to her — not the shores of the lone- 
ly tarn, but a dark hollow, lying hundreds of feet below, 
with broken rocks striking steeply down into it. She 
was not above Ill-head Tarn at all, nor anywhere near it; 
she was on the upper slope of the precipices which form- 
ed the eastern front of Crinkle Fell. 

There was no longer any doubt what to do. She must 
make her way upward again while it was yet possible to 
her. Even in the daylight it is difficult to retrace the 
steps of a descent amid broken crags, which offer a dif- 
ferent apparent shape from every different point of view ; 
in the mist she found it impossible to go back just the 
way she had come. 

The rift in the clouds had closed again, and Kate could 
only choose her way step by step. Here and there the 
crags among which she climbed were separated by streams 
of shingle, treacherous bits of ground which she had to 
pass w r arily, because a slip there might have taken her far 
down, possibly over the edge of the lurking precipice be- 
low. 

She was wondering whether it would be wisest to give 
up altogether, to sit down in the mist and wait until 
morning, when a little accident decided the question. She 
made a false step on the shingle, slipped, recovered her- 
self, and with a desperate effort landed on a ledge beside 
it. But her ankle was twisted, and her hands were bleed- 
ing ; it was impossible to go farther. She crept to the 
back of the rocky shelf, sat down there, and prepared to 
be patient. 

She was not sorry now that she had told Jack exactly 
where she was going. She supposed that it would do her 
no harm to remain where she was until daylight released 
her. Rest would remove the pain in her ankle and also 
restore her somewhat exhausted strength, and in the 
morning she could go on. It was very cold, to be sure, 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


199 


and decidedly unpleasant not to know how near she was 
to a precipice, or how difficult it might be to extricate 
herself from her present position. She was called upon to 
show endurance and courage ; and she would try not to 
fail in these qualities — but she could not help remember- 
ing Aunt Susie’s foolish tendency to anxiety with some 
comfort ; she could not help hoping that her friends might 
not have accepted her departure with that philosophic 
calm which she had recommended to them. 


CHAPTER XI. 

WHAT THE NIGHT BROUGHT. 

Late at night Henry Dilworth sat in the inn at Oak- 
dale. There was no light in the room, and through the 
window he could see the water of the lake shining in 
the moonlight, and the trees black against the margin. 
Above them rose the massive lower limbs of Crinkle Fell 
and its giant comrades, but a white rolling mist hid their 
crests. 

The road stretched past the inn, towards the lake in 
one direction, to the Langstone Pass in another. Coaches 
and pedestrians had long since left the highway deserted ; 
and yet there was the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the 
lonely road, and the horse was coming fast. When it 
reached the inn door its rider sprang from the saddle, and 
called out to the servant who advanced to meet him, “Has 
a lady come here over the mountains to-night?” 

“Ho, sir, no lady has arrived at all since morning.” 

“Is Mr. Dilworth here — a gentleman who came by 
coach from Elmdale ?” 

Henry Dilworth stepped into the passage. 

“ I am here, Mr. Langford. Do you want me ?” 

“Is your daughter with you, sir?” 

“Kate? No. I left her in Elmdale. I have not seen 
her since she went away with you.” 

“ Will you read this, sir ? And then we must look for 
her, if she isn’t here. She started to follow you — from 


200 


1ST SHALLOW WATERS. 


the Red Cow ; she hasn’t come back into Elmdale, and 
you see that the mountains are covered with mist.” 

Henry Dil worth took the letter and read ; then he hand- 
ed it back to Jack, and looked up at Crinkle Fell. 

“Yes,” he said, “the mists are on the mountain. She 
has not been able to find her way down.” 

He walked back into the passage, took his hat and stick 
and a travelling-cloak, felt in his pocket for a flask which 
should be there, and returned to the door, where Jack 
stood giving information and directions to the land- 
lord. 

“Mr. Langford,” said Henry Dilworth, “you will fol- 
low me as soon as you can, with the guides (there are two 
here that I’ve been talking to), lanterns, and a rope or 
two. I won’t wait. I am going straight on.” 

“Impossible,” said Jack ; “you must not go alone.” 

“ I’ll take the dog with me,” he answered, calling to a 
fine fox-hound with which he had already made friends. 
“I know the mountain well. I sha’n’t lose myself. I’m 
used to bigger deserts than Crinkle Fell.” 

He did not look a man with whose actions it was easy 
to interfere, as he stood erect in the door-way, an air of 
resolution bracing his limbs and animating his features ; 
but Jack ventured on another remonstrance. Henry Dil- 
worth did not wait to hear the end of it ; he strode out 
into the moonlight, whistled to the dog, and disappeared 
in the shadow of the trees. 

“We must lose no time in following him,” said Jack. 
“He’s been very ill, and is about as fit to be on the 
mountains as his daughter. Are they getting the things 
we want? And where are the men ?” 

Henry Dilworth’s long strides were of a sort not easy 
to surpass. He was a trained walker, trained both to 
speed and endurance, and excitement brought back for a 
time his former energy. Without any hesitation he took 
the path to Ill-head Tarn, and soon plunged into the mist 
clinging about the buttresses of Crinkle Fell. He felt 
sure that if Kate was lost on the mountain it must be 
somewhere beyond the tarn ; from that landmark the 
stream was an unerring guide to the valley ; therefore, 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


201 


until he reached the dark water, lying gloomily still 
among the crags, no time need be lost in investigations to 
the right or to the left. He contented himself with whis- 
tling shrilly every few minutes, and listening for any an- 
swering sound through the mist. 

When once he had reached the tarn and passed it, the 
position became more difficult and uncertain. He made 
his way onward, however, in the path which she ought to 
have taken, uttering his signal-whistles as he went. It 
occurred to him, as the best thing to be hoped for, that as 
soon as she found herself perplexed in the mist, she might 
have sat down to wait for help ; in which case she would 
not be far from the proper path. He soon found, how- 
ever, that the mist was thinning before him ; that, in fact, 
he was reaching the edge of it, for it did not extend 
nearly so far down on the west as on the east side of the 
mountain. It was certain, then, that Kate had gone astray 
in the comparatively short bit of ground between the 
edge of the mist and the shore of the tarn. She would 
already, he decided, have begun to bend to the left before 
she reached the mist ; and she could not have wandered 
to the right afterwards without crossing a deep gully, 
where she could not have failed to perceive her mistake, 
and would undoubtedly have turned back again. 

Therefore she must be looked for to the left, some- 
where in that ascending slope which climbed to the pre- 
cipitous front of Crinkle Fell. Henry Dilworth acted on 
this idea, and, turning back, made his way to the left, up 
the mountain-side. In spite of the thickness of the mist 
at this point he felt no danger of being lost in his turn. 
He had something of that sense of locality which has been 
attributed to dogs and other animals, a distinct conscious- 
ness of the direction in which he was looking, a keen mem- 
ory for the turns he had taken, a close observation of any 
small indication in the ground around him. 

He climbed, therefore, the steep and broken declivity, 
which he knew — as he mounted higher and left the tarn 
behind him — to be the crest of the dangerous upper slope 
of the precipices. These were down on his right hand, 
and on that side he felt the peril to be ; for if Kate had 


202 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


wandered always farther to the left, she would have mere- 
ly strayed down the grassy western slopes of Crinkle Fell 
into the valley above Elmdale ; she would have met with 
no difficulty in that direction, and must soon have emerged 
from the mist at a spot whence she could easily make her 
way home again. 

If, however, she had kept along the top of the ridge, 
she might still be far in front ; or if she had discovered 
her error of bending too much to the left, and tried to 
remedy it by an abrupt turn to the right, she would have 
found herself on those upper slopes where every step led 
her into greater peril. 

It was possible that she might have already made a 
false step and fallen ; but Henry Dilworth was too much 
accustomed to live in the presence of a possible catastro- 
phe to let the probability of one take possession of his 
thoughts, when those thoughts could be better employed. 
He kept all his faculties fully occupied in looking and lis- 
tening ; he whistled often, and stood still at times waiting 
for a reply. 

He was already more than a mile from the tarn \^hen 
he fancied that a faint voice answered his signal. The 
dog, who had kept close to his heels, sniffing the mist sus- 
piciously, now plunged down the rocks to the right, and 
Henry Dilworth took the same direction. He whistled 
again, and again some one answered him. This time he 
knew it to be Kate’s voice, unmistakably, rising from some 
spot below him. 

He shouted to her to keep her place ; on no account to 
attempt to come to meet him. Then he dropped from 
ledge to ledge, and soon reached the shelf of rock where 
Kate was waiting. 

She rose to her feet and gazed through the mist incred- 
ulously. 

“Is it you f How did you know? Oh, how good it 
was of you to come.” 

“ I was sure to come,” he said, simply. 

She looked at him wonderingly, still half ashamed and 
half afraid. 

“Will you forgive me?” she said ; “I didn’t mean it. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


203 


I think I was made to speak as I did. Forgive me, and 
love me again — father !” 

She flung her arms round his neck as he stood looking 
at her gently, and hid her face on his breast. 

“You will not forgive me,” she said, with something 
like a sob ; “ you are angry. You will never forget.” 

“ Dear child, I never was angry, not for a moment. 
You were not to blame.” He loosed her arms from about 
his neck gently, and sat down. The emotion which he 
had kept in check before overcame him now, though he 
gave little sign of it ; it brought back that pain to his 
heart and that weakness to his limbs which he had felt 
more than once before. 

He sat down slowly and carefully, like a man uncertain 
of his own strength ; then seeing a look of pain and per- 
plexity on his daughter’s face, he smiled at her and drew 
her on his knee. 

“ I am tired, Kate. I will rest a little.” 

“You were not fit to come,” she said, with passionate 
repentance, as she kissed the hands that clasped hers ; 
“you have been ill ; and it is my fault that you have had 
to come. I am always, always in the wrong.” 

“ No, dear, no. But you want some one to guide you. 
You must never do this again, even if I am not here to 
tell you.” 

“But you will keep me with you, will you not? You 
will never send me away again, or go away without me ?” 

“Not unless you wish it, Kate. I came home for your 
sake only.” 

“Do you know that I was coming to Oakdale to look 
for you ? I couldn’t bear to let another night go by with- 
out telling you that I was sorry, that I loved you, that it 
was all a sort of dreadful mistake. Will you ever, ever 
love me, and trust me again ?” 

“ I never ceased to do it, dear child,” he answered, 
stroking her hair caressingly ; but all the time he was 
conscious of her danger and of his weakness. He must 
by some means get her up to the top of the cliff. He 
only waited till he felt strong enough to make the effort. 

Kate had, on the other hand, almost forgotten where 


204 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


they were. She was following out her own thoughts, and 
trying to satisfy her own anxieties. 

“You will never leave me?” she repeated. “It was 
not because you wished it — that you left my mother ?” 

Henry Dilworth put his hand against his heart, and 
breathed more slowly and painfully. 

“Child,” he said, “you hurt me with your questions. 
Take on trust what you do not understand, and believe 
that I will never leave you while you love me — and want 
me.” 

She murmured some apology, vexed at her own selfish 
vehemence and preoccupation. He hardly seemed to hear 
her, but rose to his feet and said, quietly, “ I am rested. 
We will go on now.” 

She clung to his arm, however, and answered, “I don’t 
know if I can ; I hurt my ankle in getting here.” 

“ That’s unfortunate. Others are looking for us ; but 
they may not come down here. It’s an awkward place 
you have got into. I must take you at least to the top 
of the cliff ” 

“Could you leave me and go to tell them?” 

“ I will never leave you till you are safe. Have I wait- 
ed all these years to have my daughter for my own again, 
and shall I leave her here, in this place, after all ?” 

He laughed a little at the idea. 

“ Then we will wait here,” said Kate ; “ I am not afraid 
now you have come.” 

“Nay,” he said, quickly, “I have used my strength 
recklessly enough all my life. Must I spare it for the 
first time, now, when it will be of some use to you? I 
can carry you very easily, but you must hold fast in the 
difficult places where I have to use my hands.” 

She obeyed him, having perfect confidence in his pow- 
er and judgment. She had always heard of him and 
thought of him as an exceptionally strong man physical- 
ly, and she had no idea how much his strength had failed 
him of late. He had been ill certainly, but that was from 
cold, she thought ; he had recovered ; and as he gave no 
sign of painful effort she was not aware that he was mak- 
ing any now, in his determination to save her. He made 


IN SHALLOW WATEKS. 


205 


his way upward very slowly and cautiously, taking ad- 
vantage of every bit of rock or stone, planting one foot 
firmly before moving the other, and so passing safely 
over difficult places. As he went on, however, one arm 
clasping her, the other free to help him in climbing, he 
began to be more and more conscious of fatigue and 
faintness. A momentary giddiness kept him clinging to 
a rock longer than was necessary to make his footing 
sure ; a trembling in his limbs warned him not to step on 
uncertain places where a slip would be dangerous ; but 
he pressed on slowly and silently, for the top was not 
far off, although he was approaching it by a more oblique 
and, therefore, a longer route than the one by which he 
had descended. When he had reached a spot where all 
the worst difficulties seemed to be over, he stopped sud- 
denly, stooped that Kate might regain her footing and 
relieve him of her weight, then he stood quite still, steady- 
ing himself by a piece of jutting rock. 

“I can go no farther,” he said, after a moment; “we 
must wait.” 

“ You have done too much,” she said, remorsefully. 

“ You have been ill so lately.” 

“ I must rest, that is all. They will find us here — in . 
time. We are not so far out of the way now, and it is 
quite safe above, only rather steep. If no one came you 
could make your way to the top on your hands and knees. 
But they will come. We have only got to wait.” 

He sat down and leaned back against the rock behind 
him ; then he drew Kate on his knee again, and she nes- 
tled close to him with her head on his shoulder. 

“It is cold for you, dear child,” he said, as the pene- 
trating mist drove past him, and his caressing hand felt 
the moisture clinging to her hair ; “you are not used to 
such exposure.” 

“ I am very well, I am very warm,” she answered ; “ it 
is you who will suffer, I know. It shall never be so again. 
You will let me take care of you afterwards, won’t you, 
and make you happy and well?” 

“You shall do what you like,” he answered; but even 
now his thoughts were hardly with his words ; he was 


206 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


pondering on the position, and wondering how to make it 
less injurious to her. He remembered the flask in his 
pocket, and drawing it out, told her to drink half of its 
contents. 

“ It will revive you and keep you warm,” he said. 

She obeyed without a word; and then he wrapped his 
cloak round her, and drew her closer into the warmth of 
his arms. 

“How kind you are ! how good you are !” she whisper- 
ed. “ What a pity to have been without you so long !” 

He did not answer her ; he was not inclined for speech : 
he still was absorbed by the consciousness of a danger, 
the oppression of a suffering, of which she had no knowl- 
edge. 

She asked at length, as drowsiness overcame her, “ Does 
it matter if I fall asleep?” And he answered, “Sleep, 
child, if you can ; you are safe ; and I will keep you 
warm.” 

Her long wandering and waiting had made her weary, 
so that now, in the warmth of his arms, wrapped about 
by his cloak, with all anxiety gone from her, she fell 
gradually into slumber. Even the shrill signal-whistle, 
which from time to time he uttered as a guide to those 
seeking them, did not arouse her. 

The dog had failed to follow Henry Dilworth in his 
steep descent, and he now hoped that the animal had 
turned homeward, and might lead the other seekers here. 
But as the time passed on the chilliness increased. He 
put his hand on Kate’s, and fancied that it was getting 
colder. He had already felt it to be a hard thing that 
the strength which had been his for so many years should 
fail him at the first moment when he needed it for his 
own child’s help ; now it was harder to imagine what the 
cost of this failure might be. The health which made her 
so beautiful and happy, which had shone in her eyes and 
glowed in her cheeks, might be lost, wasted, thrown away 
by one night’s error on her part and weakness on his. 
The thought of it was intolerable to him. He was re- 
solved to save her from injury at any cost. Gently lift- 
ing her head, he pushed the sleeve of his coat from the 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


207 


arm supporting her, and then slipped it off altogether, to 
wrap it round his daughter instead. 

She moved a little, murmured, “ What is it ? Will they 
come soon?” and fell asleep again without waiting for 
any answer. 

If it had been cold before, it was colder now to Henry 
Dilworth. The mist soaked through his shirt-sleeves and 
chilled his limbs to numbness. The oppression and dif- 
ficulty of breathing from which he was suffering in- 
creased. Mechanically he felt in his pocket for the flask 
from which he had made Kate drink. It contained bran- 
dy-and- water, mixed with a few drops of opium. He had 
taken such a draught more than once as a remedy for 
certain painful symptoms. And he had never needed it 
so much as now, when the brandy would warm his limbs 
and stimulate his exhausted strength ; the opium would 
soothe and relieve his suffering and depression. He took 
the cork from the flask and raised it to his lips, but be- 
fore he had tasted it he remembered that Kate might 
awake cold and exhausted, and need the very draught he 
was taking. 

If the mist remained on the mountain, and the seekers 
took other directions, many hours might still pass away 
before help came. Kate’s strength would fail, and no 
care that he could take of her would be enough to keep 
from her limbs the deadly chill of that fatal mist. It was 
even possible that when morning came she might have to 
find her way from the mountain alone. In such a case 
the draught he held in his fingers was the one help he 
could insure to her, the one thing which might be left to 
revive and save her. 

He put the cork in its place again carefully, felt for his 
daughter’s hand, and laid the bottle in it. 

“ Kate, dear child,” he said, speaking very distinctly, as 
if he wished to impress every word on her mind, “ put 
this bottle in your pocket. It is brandy-and-water, what 
you had before. Drink the rest when you feel cold.” 

Her fingers closed drowsily over it. She felt for her 
pocket mechanically, and put the bottle in. When he re- 
peated his words, and said, “ Do you understand, Kate ? 


208 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


Drink the rest when you feel cold,” she answered, dream- 
ily, ‘ 4 Yes, I am to drink it when I feel cold but wrapped 
in the warmth of a happy sleep, she did not raise her head 
to look round, or try to understand the reason of the in- 
struction he had given to her. She was content to obey, 
and leave the rest to him. She moved her head sleepily 
against his shoulder, felt for his hand and clasped it. Its 
coldness did not arouse her ; nor, dreaming happily of a 
life in the future with him, did she notice that from that 
moment his signal-whistle was never repeated. 

She awoke when the mists were thinning and the dawn 
was breaking. A vague sense of terror and distress was 
upon her ; the cold had penetrated to her limbs, and a 
nightmare dream had succeeded the happy slumber of 
the hours before. There was the sound of a barking dog 
near her, voices and footsteps. 

Forgetting where she was, and still in the perplexity of 
sleep, she sprang to her feet in answer to Jack’s cry of 
“Kate !” 

“Oh, Jack ! you have come at last ! How long I have 
waited !” 

The pain in her ankle recalled her to a more distinct 
memory of the circumstances around her. She leaned 
against the rock, and turned towards her father. 

“ He found me,” she said ; “ he carried me here. Fa- 
ther — ” She stopped suddenly, with a startled look, and 
eyes that dilated in a great terror. 

“ Why doesn’t he speak ? Why doesn’t he look ? Is 
he asleep ? Oh, Jack ! it cannot be that he is ill !” 

One of the men had gone forward to the place where 
Henry Dilworth still sat, his back against the wall of rock, 
his head a little forward, with the chin resting against his 
chest. The guide lifted one motionless arm and let it fall 
again. Then he glanced at Kate, and made an apologetic 
gesture to Jack, as if an unpleasant duty had been put 
upon him, and said distinctly enough, but in a low voice, 

“It’s all over. We can do nothing here.” 

And Kate, flinging herself on her knees beside him, 
looked into her father’s face, and knew that her love had 
been given too late. 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


209 


CHAPTER XII. 

SUPPLEMENTARY. 

So ended Henry Dilwortk’s life - story. The strong 
swimmer, who had breasted the fiercer currents of life 
with courage and success, died worn out at last in those 
shallow waters of social existence where his best qualities 
seemed to avail him nothing. His own generosity be- 
trayed him and his own tenderness defeated him. The 
unselfishness of his nature combined with the prejudices 
of others to his undoing. For all his love and patience 
he had only that reward which the world and its children 
offer freely and fully to their best benefactors — permis- 
sion and opportunity to make his self-sacrifice complete. 

He was buried beside his wife in the grave-yard at 
Elmdale, and a marble tablet was put up to his honor m 
the little church there. It was Miss Leake who suggest- 
ed the tablet, and who found money for a memorial win- 
dow in the chancel. Kate was absorbed in the thought 
of another sort of monument to his memory. 

The tablet related his discoveries in geography and 
natural history ; it spoke of him as one who had for- 
warded the cause of science and civilization throughout a 
long and devoted life, and who was an honor to his age 
and his country. 

Kate made only one objection to the inscription on the 
tablet as first proposed. She admitted that the letters 
which signified his fellowship in .various learned societies 
ought to follow his name, but she would not consent that 
they should be preceded by the title of Esquire. 

“ He owed nothing to his position, everything to him- 
self. Do not let us try to remember him except just as 
he was,” Kate pleaded; and Jack — the perfidious Jack, 
to whom Miss Leake appealed for support — upheld the 
younger woman’s opinion on this as on every subject. 

14 


210 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


A friendly truce had followed the lovers’ quarrel. It 
was not referred to after Henry Dilworth’s death, and 
Kate, stunned by her great loss, overwhelmed by remorse 
and loneliness, had no thought to give to questions of love 
and marriage. She accepted silently Jack’s friendly help 
and sympathy, and made no allusion to past relations ; 
while Jack, on his side, was strangely humble and oblig- 
ing. He rode miles on her errands, he wrote letters for 
her, he hunted up books that she required from the libra- 
ries of his friends, or bought them himself regardless of 
cost ; he showed himself ready to beg, borrow, perhaps to 
steal, certainly to work and spend, on her behalf. 

For Kate was engaged on a great task, one which seem- 
ed to her almost sacred. She was going carefully through 
all her father’s notes and manuscripts, and preparing them 
for publication. She knew that it had been his intention 
to give to the world a summary of his labors and discov- 
eries ; he had amassed ample material, but he had perpet- 
ually put off the literary part of the work, which part was 
the most uncongenial to him. He had always hoped for his 
daughter’s help in the revision of these papers, and now 
Kate worked at them alone, feeling this the only thing 
left to do for him. She would have liked much better to 
devote herself to his personal life, but it was too late for 
that ; with her own hands she had cut away all hope of 
that special privilege for which she had always longed ; 
she could no longer contribute to her father’s happiness, 
she must be content only to finish his work. 

She set herself to the task with the strong zeal of one 
who has suddenly come face to face with a great grief, 
and can only escape its terrible gaze by an averted look, 
fixed on a continual labor. She read, she studied, she 
made notes, she used numberless books of reference, Jack 
helping her and advising her in all. She knew that she was, 
in comparison with her father, ignorant and incompetent; 
but she felt that the strength of her love and determina- 
tion might enable her to make a more worthy memorial of 
him than would have been produced by indifferent though 
more experienced hands. 

Jack Langford was bold beyond reason in his efforts to 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


211 


help her. He borrowed from strangers, if necessary, 
books which he could not buy ; he wrote to authorities 
and inspected museums on her behalf. He took an im- 
mense amount of trouble only to verify a statement or 
elucidate a doubtful passage in the manuscript. A jour- 
ney to London was treated by him as a trifle in those 
days, and he was ready to spend any amount of time in 
turning over folios and studying specimens in the British 
Museum. 

When the work was finished, Jack encouraged Kate to 
submit it for correction to a scientific authority who had 
been a correspondent of her father’s. 

“I’d write myself and ask him to edit it,” said Jack — 
who had, indeed, written on her behalf a number of let- 
ters which might have been looked upon as calmly im- 
pertinent if they had not for the most part been generous- 
ly responded to — “ but he’ll pay twice the attention to a 
request from yourself.” 

The scientific authority proved to be a sympathetic and 
obliging person ; and so the book was well corrected, 
some useful notes were added, and — with an appreciative 
preface from the authority — the book went through the 
press. 

Then Kate’s task was done. She did not desire fame 
for her father, nor even full acknowledgment of his work 
from the world ; she only wished to save that work from be- 
ing wasted and lost for want of the necessary final labor. 

The first review of the book which appeared spoke re- 
spectfully of the character and achievements of Henry 
Dilworth, and approvingly of the manner in which his 
memorials had been edited and prepared for publication. 

Miss Leake was delighted when it was put into her 
hands ; her niece’s recent labors were excused, and her 
own account of her brother-in-law’s genius forever justi- 
fied to her little world. She read the review aloud to her 
sister Anna, quoted from it, wrongly, when occasion of- 
fered, mentioned it to her friends, and felt it to be a sat- 
isfactory thing altogether. 

“Hot that Kate has anything of a literary tendency — 
not at all,” she thought it necessary to explain ; “ but the 


212 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


dear girl was so fdnd of her father, and so proud of him, 
naturally, that she would make any effort for his sake. 
And Mr. Langford has been so very good in assisting her, 
looking up references and so on ; otherwise I never would 
have consented to the thing, it was so much for her to 
do; hut it has helped to divert her mind from her great 
trouble. So sudden it was, so unexpected, just when he 
had returned to England, and she was looking forward to 
seeing more of him than she had ever done before. He 
was a martyr to science, literally. Of course it was the 
exposure on the mountain which gave the last strain to 
his health ; but it had been ruined before that by his 
work abroad. He had a splendid constitution, but he en- 
dured all sorts of hardships in his pursuit of knowledge. 
He would have lived twenty years longer if he could 
have been induced to settle down quietly and take care 
of himself.” 

Thus Miss Leake discoursed to a friend in the drawing- 
room at “The Stepping-stones” on the day after the re- 
view had appeared, while Kate sat, weary and sad, in the 
little room which was a library or breakfast-room as cir- 
cumstances required. 

The sadness which comes after the ending of a task and 
with the sense of its insufficiency weighed upon her; 
there was, besides, a feeling of the blankness and aimless- 
ness which dulled the interest of the future. 

She had read the review, and sighed in reading it. Why 
had she worked for her father too late to win his appro- 
bation? Why had she not used her powers early enough 
to brighten his life of lonely effort ? She leaned back in 
a low chair, and gazed into the flickering fire-light, too 
listless to rouse herself to any occupation. 

The door opened and Jack came in, looked round the 
room, and seemed disappointed ; then he caught sight of 
her in a shadowy corner, closed the door behind him, and 
came forward with a glance of satisfaction. 

“Tired, Kate?” 

“ I have done nothing to make me so.” 

“ That may be. How glad I am to find you alone ! It 
was sensible of you to sit here by yourself.” 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


213 


He drew a chair close to the fire and sat down. Then 
he said, “ The old ladies are talking about this review. 
Does it make you glad, Kate ?” 

He gazed hard at her as she leaned back in the shadow, 
changed a little from the proud and handsome girl of a 
year ago. She looked prouder, perhaps ; but her manner 
was conspicuously gentle, and her eyes took a wistful ex- 
pression when they turned to Jack. She was still dressed 
in deep mourning, though she had expressed scorn for it 
when first told to put it on. 

“ Why should I wear black for a man I was never al- 
lowed to see — who was not thought good enough for me 
to live with?” she had asked then ; but the bitterness of 
her first sorrow had now passed away. 

“ I don’t know,” she answered ; “ it wasn’t for that sort 
of thing that I cared to do it. It was that his work should 
be finished, not that people should praise it, that I cared. 
What’s the good of praise? He will never know. But 
the work was what he meant to do ; it was part of him- 
self.” Then her face softened, and the warmth of a smile 
found its way across to Jack’s watching eyes. 

“You have been very good to me,” she said, “and I 
thank you very much indeed.” 

“And dismiss me as done with?” he said, inquiringly. 

“Oh, Jack, how can you?” she protested, with a little 
laugh. 

“ But is it so, or is it not so, Kate ? I want to know,” 
he persisted. 

“ Why should I dismiss you ?” 

“ Why, indeed ? I see no valid reason, and every reason 
why I should stay. At least the reason of my own wish, 
which is sufficient for me — not for you, perhaps ?” 

“ Why do you talk so ?” 

“Because I have waited long enough. You had no 
room for me in your mind some months ago, and I kept 
out of your sight — mentally, I mean. Kow I want to 
come back ; it is time. Don’t you like me a little, Kate ? 
Will you throw away another happiness ?” 

“Is it another happiness? You are young; you may 
find some one else. Why should you care ?” 


214 


m SHALLOW WATERS. 


“ I won't find any one else. And you are young too. 
You have a long life before you, probably; do you want 
it to be empty and bleak because you have made one mis- 
take and lost one chance ?” 

“ It wasn’t for myself I cared.” 

“But you will have to care for yourself as time goes 
on ; and I can’t help caring for you throughout every- 
thing.” 

“But, Jack, you said you didn’t.” 

“ Kate,” he answered, with an air of serious reproof, 
“don’t pretend that you were so simple as to believe me.” 

She blushed at his look as much as his words, and an- 
swered, deprecatingly, “ I didn’t think of it ; why should 
I? You had said so.” 

“Think of it now, then. You know I love you.” 

“Oh, Jack!” 

“ Is the phrase too strong? Well, then, I have a faint 
liking for you, the smallest suspicion of an admiration. 
Haven’t you anything in return for me ?” 

He had leaned forward and taken her hand, which trem- 
bled a little without endeavoring to retreat. 

“ Think of it, Katie,” he said, persuasively ; “ why 
shouldn’t we live together, and be as happy as we can ?” 

“ But I am not — nice. You know I am not.” 

“ Who said you were nice ? and who wanted you to be 
nice?” he demanded. 

He had drawn his chair nearer to hers, and put his arm 
loosely and, as it were, tentatively about her. “ I never 
said I did, Kate.” 

She looked down at her own white fingers, which moved 
restlessly in his hand; and she said, softly, “ I do like you 
a little, Jack ; but I don’t think I should like to marry 
you, if that’s what you mean.” 

“ I wouldn’t be so unreasonable as to ask you to like it, 
if only you would do it,” he said; “couldn’t you manage 
to think of it — dear ?” 

She drew a long breath as he uttered the word softly. 
Something in her own heart answered to his tenderness. 
She tried to glance at him, but her eyes fell. His head 
bent nearer to hers, and he said, 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


215 


“ Katie, darling 1” 

“Yes, Jack ?” 

She glanced at him timidly, interrogatively, and this 
time his eyes held hers, so that they were not withdrawn. 

“ Don’t you love me, Katie ?” 

“ Oh, Jack, do you think I do ?” 

Her doubt seemed to him a sufficient certainty, and he 
took the question as answered in his favor. 

“You won’t mind it so much when you are used to it; 
it isn’t so bad after all — my being so fond of you, I mean,” 
he apologized. 

“Oh, Jack, how strange you are !” she laughed, softly, 
as she leaned back in her chair, having received his first 
caress with a discretion which showed by nothing, except 
a heightened color, what a new and strange experience it 
was to her. 

“And suppose that after all I should spoil your life — 
as my father’s was spoiled ?” 

“ I’ll take my chance,” he answered. 

“At least,” she said, “you know all my faults before- 
hand.” 

“ Did I ever say so ? Then I was an impertinent fool. 
You haven’t any faults; you are simply perfect.” 

She looked at him in amazement, and began to protest. 

“ How can you speak so, and expect me to believe you? 
Do you think people can’t be fond of one another without 
telling — lies ?” 

“ Fond of one another, pooh ! What an expression ! I 
was fond of you years ago, before I had any idea what a 
delicious creature you are to know properly, before — if 
you don’t mind my mentioning it — I had kissed you.” 

“It wasn’t necessary to mention it,” Kate observed. 

“ Kow I am madly, foolishly — no, I should say, wisely, 
discreetly, deliciously, admirably — in love with you. Even 
those amended expressions are absurdly inadequate and 
inappropriate — don’t you think so ?” 

“I can’t say,” Kate answered, with meekness ; “perhaps 
I don’t feel quite — like that.” 

“ Don’t you ? Poor darling ! Do I get all the good of 
it ? and do you only submit in order to make me happy?” 


216 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


She turned to him then, with a tear-brightened tender- 
ness shining in her eyes. 

“ No, Jack, it isn’t so, and never was, and never will be. 
You always did me good and made me love you; yes, 
though I said you didn’t, and thought I couldn’t. If,” 
she said, dropping her voice and her eyes at the same mo- 
ment, “ you had gone away as I told you, and left me, 
what a miserable creature I should have been!” 

Then the door opened and Miss Leake came into the 
room, expressing some astonishment to find Mr. Langford 
there, and the candles not lighted, only the fire-light shin- 
ing ruddily into the darkness. 

Jack sprang up to meet her, however, with a cordial 
greeting, and concealing his regret that her friend had not 
stayed longer, he cut short her exclamations and apologies. 

“ It’s all right, Miss Leake ; Kate won’t be an anxiety 
to you any more. I know how difficult she is to deal with, 
and I am going to take her off your hands altogether. She’s 
agreed to it at last.” 

“Kate never was an anxiety to me,” Miss Leake re- 
plied, with dignity, “ and if you mean that she has con- 
sented to marry you, I am perfectly satisfied, of course ; 
I said so before when you asked me ; but I shall miss her 
very much when she goes.” 

This marriage was an event which she had desired for 
two years at least; both her hearers were aware of it, 
and she knew that they were ; but what did that matter 
when the proper thing had to be said? 

Whether J ack and Kate lived happily ever afterwards is 
a question beyond the limits of this story; they had in their 
hands the best materials for the production of happiness. 
They suited each other and loved each other; they pos- 
sessed health, good intentions, and a sufficiency of money. 

Jack always declared that his wife had a delicious dis- 
position to live with ; he was very proud of her, while 
she was loving and grateful to him. He used to observe 
with seriousness that she made him a very obedient wife ; 
and there was more truth in the statement than would 
have been imagined by an outsider who remarked only 


IN SHALLOW WATERS. 


21 ? 


the haughty beauty of the one and the careless good- 
nature of the other. 

Kate’s children were taught to be proud of their de- 
scent from Henry Dilworth. He was a hero whose story 
nourished their admiration of the heroic, and fed their 
love of the unselfish. He had been able to give little to 
his daughter in his lifetime, but at least he bequeathed to 
his descendants and hers no trivial example, no inherited 
meannesses, no darkened ideals. His life had been lone- 
ly, his love unsatisfied; but his was a link in a chain of 
lives, and the link was strong and pure. The influence 
of his character reached beyond the term of his own ex- 
istence, and helped those who loved more happily to love 
unselfishly too. His public life — the relation which he 
bore to the general human community — had never been 
useless or ignoble, and his private life, forlorn in the liv- 
ing of it, could not be regarded as devoid of noble issues. 

In this world, where the human race grows slowly, if it 
grows at all, to loftly ideals ; in this so - called civilized 
society, where we struggle with sins and sicknesses of ev- 
ery sort ; with faults which private interest engenders in 
us ; with temptations which our neighbors’ example com- 
mends to us, and vices that we have inherited from our 
parents. In this strange sequence of generations, where 
the baby dies of its mother’s disease, and the infant is 
born to a heritage of its father’s faults, no life that is 
pure, simple, and honestly laborious can be regarded as in- 
significant. Is not all humanity indebted to every man 
who holds his own as its representative, and does not 
yield to a crowd of deteriorating influences? May not 
generatious yet unborn trace back to such a one their 
health and their virtue? Will not the society that ignored 
him survive only by the force of his merit and that of his 
fellows ? Such a man may have had a sad life, a lonely 
life, a disappointed life : was it, then, a failure? 

He had what he chose — the power to work well and 
live nobly; and the rest of this world’s good things 
slipped easily away to the ignoble. 


THE END. 



n ' - 




« 



‘ - ■ ■ ' • ■ ' ; 



* 













. 



























































AT THE RED GLOVE 


A Novel. Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart, pp. 246. 
12mo, Extra Cloth, $1 50. 


We have tried to express our admiration of the brilliant talents which 
the “Red Glove” displays — the accurate knowledge shown of localities; 
the characteristics of the surrounding population, and the instinctive read- 
ing of the inner selves of the various personages who figure in the story. . . . 
A charming idyl. — JY. Y. Mail and Express. 

The execution is admirable. . . . The characters are the clearest studies, 
and are typical of a certain phase of French life. . . . The story is fanciful, 
graceful, and piquant, and Reinhart’s illustrations add to its flavor. — Bos- 
ton Journal. 

The peculiar vivacity of the French style is blended with a subtle char- 
acter-analysis that is one of the best things in that line that has been pro- 
duced for a long time. It is one of the most brilliant pieces of literary 
work that has appeared for years, and the interest is sustained almost 
breathlessly. — Boston Evening Traveller. 

The authoress of “At the Red Glove” knows how to paint a flesh-and- 
blood woman, grateful to all the senses, and respectable for the qualities 
of her mind and heart. . . . All in all, “At the Red Glove” is one of the 
most delightful of novels since Miss Woolson wrote “For the Major.” — 
N. Y. Times. 

The novel is one of the best things of the summer as a delicious bit of 
entertainment, prepared with perfect art and presented without a sign of 
effort. — JY. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

It is an artistic and agreeable reproduction, in bright colors, of French 
sentiment and feeling. ... It is an abiding relief to read it, after such 
studies as novels in this country fashionably impose. — Boston Globe. 

A charming little story. . . . The characters are well drawn, with fresh- 
ness and with adequacy of treatment, and the style is crisp and ofttimes 
trenchant. — Boston Advertiser. 

A very pretty story, simply and exquisitely told. . . . The ups and downs 
of the courtship are drawn with a master’s hand. — Cincinnati Inquirer. 

There has been no such pleasant novel of Swiss social life as this. . . . 
The book is one that tourists and summer idlers will do well to add to 
their travelling libraries for the season. — Philadelphia Bulletin. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

jgy The above work sent by mail , postage prepaid , to any part of the United States 
or Canada , on receipt of the price. 


UPON A CAST 


A Novel. By Charlotte Dunning, pp. 330. 16mo, 

Cloth, $1 00. 

It embodies throughout the expressions of genuine American frank- 
ness, is well conceived, well managed, and brought to a delightful 
and captivating close. — Albany Press. 

The author writes this story of American social life in an interest- 
ing manner. . . . The style of the writing is excellent, and the dia- 
logue clever. — N. T. Times. 

This story is strong in plot, and its characters are drawn with a 
firm and skilful hand. They seem like real people, and their acts 
and words, their fortunes and misadventures, are made to engage the 
reader’s interest and sympathy. — Worcester Daily Spy. 

The character painting is very well done. . . . The sourest cynic 
that ever sneered at woman cannot but find the little story vastly 
entertaining. — Commercial Bulletin, Boston. 

The life of a semi-metropolitan village, with its own aristocracy, 
gossips, and various other qualities of people, is admirably por- 
trayed. . . . The book fascinates the reader from the first page to 
the last. — Boston Traveller. 

The plot has been constructed with no little skill, and the charac- 
ters — all of them interesting and worthy of acquaintance— are por- 
trayed with great distinctness. The book is written in an entertain- 
ing and vivacious style, and is destined to provide entertainment for 
a large number of readers. — Christian at Work, N. Y. 

One of the best — if not the very best — of the society novels of the 
season. — Detroit Free Press. 

Of peculiar interest as regards plot, and with much grace and 
freshness of style. — Brooklyn Times. 

The plot has been constructed with no little skill, and the characters 
— all of them interesting and worthy of acquaintance — are portrayed 
with great distinctness. — Episcopal Recorder, Philadelphia. 

A clever and entertaining novel. It is wholly social, and the 
theatre is a small one ; but the characters are varied and are drawn 
with a firm hand ; the play of human passion and longing is well- 
defined and brilliant ; and the movement is effective and satisfac- 
tory. . . . The love story is as good as the social study, making alto- 
gether an uncommonly entertaining book for vacation reading. — 
Wilmington (Del.) Morning News. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Harper & Brothers will send the above work by mail , postage prepaid , to 
any part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


BOOTS AND SADDLES; 

Or, Life in Dakota with General Custer. By Mrs. Eliz- 
abeth B. Custer. With Portrait of General Custer, 
pp. 312. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. 

A book of adventure is interesting reading, especially when it is all true, 
as is the case with “ Boots and Saddles.” * * * She does not obtrude the 
fact that sunshine and solace went with her to tent and fort, but it in- 
heres in her narrative none the less, and as a consequence “ these simple 
annals of our daily life,” as she calls them, are never dull nor uninterest- 
ing. — j Evangelist, N. Y. 

Mrs. Custer’s book is in reality a bright and sunny sketch of the life 
of her late husband, who fell at the battle of “ Little Big Horn.” * * * 
After the war, when General Custer was sent to the Indian frontier, his 
wife was of the party, and she is able to give the minute story of her 
husband’s varied career, since she was almost always near the scene of 
his adventures. — Brooklyn Union . 

We have no hesitation in saying that no better or more satisfactory life 
of General Custer could have been written. Indeed, we may as well 
speak the thought that is in us, and say plainly that we know of no bio- 
graphical work anywhere which we count better than this. * * * Surely the 
record of such experiences as these will be read with that keen interest 
which attaches only to strenuous human doings ; as surely we are right 
in saying that such a story of truth and heroism as that here told will 
take a deeper hold upon the popular mind and heart than any work of 
fiction can. For the rest, the narrative is as vivacious and as lightly and 
trippingly given as that of any novel. It is enriched in every chapter with 
illustrative anecdotes and incidents, and here and there a little life story 
of pathetic interest is told as an episode. — N. Y. Commercial Advertiser . ' 

It is a plain, straightforward story of the author’s life on the plains of 
Dakota. Every member of a Western garrison will want to read this 
book ; every person in the East who is interested in Western life will 
want to read it, too; and every girl or boy who has a healthy appetite 
for adventure will be sure to get it. It is bound to have an army of read- 
ers that few authors can expect. — Philadelphia Press. 

These annals of daily life in the army are simple, yet interesting, and 
underneath all is discerned the love of a true woman ready for any sacri- 
fice. She touches on themes little canvassed by the civilian, and makes a 
volume equally redolent of a loving devotion to an honored husband, and 
attractive as a picture of necessary duty by the soldier. — Commonwealth , 
Boston. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, N. Y. 

Habpeb & Bbothers will send the above work by mail , postage prepaid , to any 
part of the United States or Canada* on receipt qf the price . 


“AS WE WENT MARCHING ON.” 


A Story of the War. By G. W. Hosier, M.D. pp. 310. 
16mo, Cloth, $1 00. 

A skilful blending of plot with descriptions of active operations in the 
field. An attractive book. — N. Y. Sun. 

It seems to be all true excepting, perhaps, the names of the heroes and 
heroines. The author’s battle sketches are good, his characters natural, 
and his conversations neatly managed. — V. Y. Journal of Commerce. 

A vivid, somewhat exciting story, in which the experiences of army life 
are told in a way that makes them sound like the author’s own, and in 
which the narrative is conducted by Mars and Cupid alternately. — Phila- 
delphia Inquirer. 

This is really a fine story, in which marching and fighting and love are 
blended, yet one never interferes with the other. ... Of the picturesque- 
ness of camp life, the rude comfort of the bivouac, the hardships of the 
march, there is not in all the war history with which we are acquainted 
any such forceful description as in this little volume. — Rochester Herald. 

Interesting, both as a novel and as a description of the actual life of the 
soldier — the discomforts of rainy nights, muddy roads, and a hungry 
bivouac in a country filled with foes. . . . The various military incidents — 
the night marches, the annihilation of infantry surprised by calvary, the 
gathering roar and surging tide of a great battle — are given with the en- 
thralling energy peculiar to the eye-witness. — Commercial Bulletin , Boston. 

A well-told soldier’s romance, commencing in the Blue Ridge wilderness 
of Virginia about the time of Pope’s disastrous campaign, and ending with 
Sheridan’s ride up the valley and converting defeat into victory at Fisher 
Hill. ... A war story superior to any with which we are acquainted. It is 
admirable as to plot and characters, as to the picturesque and effective 
background of military life, and as to its pure, graceful, and vigorous 
English. — Pittsburgh Post. 

Dr. Hosmer has written a spirited story that will interest old campaign- 
ers on both sides of the rebellion conflict. The clash and roar of battle 
are distinctly heard in some of his chapters. A good story for the borne 
camp-fire. — Troy Press. 

This is a well-written and interesting story, in which domestic incidents 
and home affections blend with the roar of battle and the taking of pris- 
oners. The writer shows considerable knowledge of the actions and posi- 
tions on both sides in Virginia, where the scene is laid. — Brooklyn Eagle. 

A well-told, interesting story, with just enough of war, deceit, and love 
in it to be heartily enjoyable. — Hartford Post. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS^ New York. 

HA.RPF.it & Brothers will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid , to any 
part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


NATURE’S SERIAL STORY. 

By Edward P. Roe. Beautifully and Profusely Illus- 
trated with Wood - engravings from Drawings by 
William Hamilton Gibson and Frederic Dielman. 
pp. xx., 430. Square 8vo, Illuminated Cloth, $5 00 ; 
Gilt Edges, $5 25. 

A delight to the eyes and a refreshment to the mind. It comes to us 
with a delicious breath of the woods and fields. — N. Y. Commercial Ad- 
vertiser. 

Mr. Roe’s most elaborate production, and his ablest work. — Observer , 
N. Y. 

Altogether Mr. Roe’s best work. Though the story is but a thread on 
which to hang the delightful nature-lore of the author, it is yet pure, sweet, 
delicate, and artistic. — Christian Advocate , N. Y. 

Mr. Roe describes Nature with a loving hand, and from the most inti- 
mate familiarity with her moods. ... We doubt if ever work of fiction had 
so beautiful a setting. — Brooklyn Union. 

The striking good thing in the book is that it is kept up to a high level 
of unaffected sympathy with the grand and lovely scenes in which it is 
planted. The human drama is idyllic in its sweetness and purity — Inde- 
pendent, N. Y. 

In literary attractions and artistic elegance it is one of the foremost 
books of the year. — Commercial Gazette, Cincinnati. 

Writer, artists, and publishers have combined to give an original work 
which may gratify the best taste of American readers. — Christian Intel- 
ligence, r, N. Y. 

An uncommonly attractive and beautiful volume. — Boston Gazette. 

One of the best of the many superior stories the author has written 
within a few years ; while the illustrations, full of the charm of out-door 
life, are exquisitely rendered. — Boston Commonwealth. 

No one can read this work without becoming intensely interested in its 
charming pages ; none will read it without feeling the promptings of a 
better nature which cannot fail to teach lessons of wisdom and of good- 
ness.— Albany Press. 

The central idea is the illustration of out-door life, and this is done both 
with pen and pencil so successfully that the freshness of the country 
breathes perceptibly through the pages. — N. Y. Tribune. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New Yore. 

Harper & Brothers will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid , to any 
part o/ the United States or Canada } on receipt o/ the price. 


FLY-RODS AND FLY-TACKLE. 

Suggestions as to their Manufacture and Use. By Henry 
P. Wells. Illustrated, pp. 364. Post 8vo, Illumi- 
nated Cloth, $2 50. 

Mr. Wells has devoted more time and attention to the materials used in 
fly-fishing than any person we know of, and his experience is well set forth 
in this most valuable book. * * * The author is an amateur rod-maker who 
has experimented with every wood known to rod manufacturers, as well as 
with some that are not known to them, and therefore he is an undoubted 
authority on the subject. This chapter and the one following, which gives 
directions in rod-making, forms the most perfect treatise on rods extant. 
* * * The book is one of great value, and will take its place as a standard 
authority on all points of which it treats, and we cannot commend it too 
highly. — Forest and Stream , N. Y. 

Since Izaak Walton lingered over themes piscatorial, we have learned to 
expect, in all essays on the gentle art of angling, a certain daintiness and 
elegance of literary form as well as technical utility* Publisher and author 
have co-operated to meet these traditional requirements in “ Fly-Rods and 
Fly-Tackle.” * * * Mr. Wells’s competence to expound the somewhat in- 
tricate principles and delicate processes of fly-fishing will be plain to any 
reader who himself has some practical acquaintance with the art discussed. 
The value of the authbr’s instructions and suggestions is signally enhanced 
by their minuteness and lucidity. — N. Y. Sun. 

A complete manual for the ambitious lover of fishing for trout. * * * All 
lovers of fly-fishing should have Mr. Wells’s book in their outfit for the 
sport that is near at hand. — Philadelphia Bulletin. 

Mr. Wells reveals to us the mysteries of lines, leaders, and reels, rods, 
rod material, and rod-making. He lets us into the secret of making re- 
pairs, and gives all due directions for casting the fly. * * * Moreover, Mr. 
W ells writes in an attractive style. There is a certain charm in the heart- 
iness and grace wherewith he expresses his appreciation of those beauties 
of nature which the angler has so unlimited an opportunity of enjoying. 
Thus what may be called not only a technical, but also a scientific, knowl- 
edge of his subject is combined with a keen delight in hill, stream, and for- 
est for the sake of the varied loveliness they display. — N. Y. Telegram. 

A book of practical hints about the manufacture and use of anglers’ 
gear. Fish-hooks, lines, leaders, rods and rod-making, repairs* flies and 
fly-fishing, are among the important subjects discussed with great fulness. 
The essay on “Casting the Fly” and “Miscellaneous Suggestions” are 
rich in points for beginners. It is to the latter, and not to the experts, 
that Mr. Wells modestly dedicates his work. His object is to supply pre- 
cisely the kind of information of which he stood so much in need during 
his own novitiate. — N. Y. Journal of Commerce. 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

ftST The above work sent by mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States 
or Canada, on receipt of the price , 


It surpasses all its predecessors. 


N. Y. Tribune. 



A Dictionary of the English Language, Pronouncing, Etymological, 
and Explanatory, Embracing Scientific and Other Terms, Numer- 
ous Familiar Terms, and a Copious Selection of Old English 
Words. By the Rev. James Stormontii. The Pronunciation 
Carefully Revised by the Rev. P. II. Piielp, M.A. pp. 1248. 
4to, Cloth, $6 00 ; Half Roan, $7 00 ; Sheep, $7 50. 

Also in Harper’s Franklin Square Library, in Twenty- 
three Parts. 4to, Paper, 25 cents each Part. Muslin covers for 
binding supplied by the publishers on receipt of 50 cents. 

As regards thoroughness of etymological research and breadth of modern inclusion, 
Stormonth’s new dictionary surpasses all its predecessors. * * * In fact. Stormonth’s 
Dictionary possesses merits so many and conspicuous that it can hardly fail to estab- 
lish itself as a standard and a favorite.— .V. Y. Tribune. 

This may serve in great measure the purposes of an English cyclopaedia. It gives 
lucid and succinct definitions of the technical terms in science and art, in law and 
medicine. We have the explanation of words and phrases that puzzle most people, 
showing wonderfully comprehensive and out-of-the-way research. We need only add 
that the Dictionary appears in all its departments to have been brought down to meet 
the latest demands of the day, and that it is admirably printed. — Times , London. 

A most valuable addition to the library of the scholar and of the general reader. 
It can have for the present no possible rival . — Boston Post. 

It has the bones and sinews of the grand dictionary of the future. * * * An invalu- 
able library book . — Ecclesiastical Gazette , London. 

A work which is certainly without a rival, all things considered, among the dic- 
tionaries of our language. The peculiarity of the work is that it is equally well adapt- 
ed to the uses of the man of business, who demands compactness and ease of reference, 
and to those of the most exigent scholar. — X. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

As compared with our standard dictionaries, it is better in type, richer in its vocab- 
ulary, and happier in arrangement. Its system of grouping is admirable. * * * He 
who possesses this dictionary will enjoy and use it, and its bulk is not so great as to 
make use of it a terror . — Christian Advocate , N. Y. 

A well-planned and carefully executed work, which has decided merits of its own, 
and for which there is a place not filled by any of its rivals. — X. Y. Sun. 

A work of sterling value. It has received from all quarters the highest commenda- 
tion . — Lutheran Observer, Philadelphia. 

A trustworthy, truly scholarly dictionary of our English language. — Christian Intel- 
ligencer , N. Y. 

The issue of Stormonth’s great English dictionary is meeting with a hearty wel- 
come everywhere. — Boston Transcript. 

A critical and accurate dictionary, the embodiment of good scholarship and the 
result of modern researches. Compression and clearness are its external evidences, 
and it offers a favorable comparison with the best dictionaries in use, while it bolds an 
unrivalled place in bringing forth the result of modern philological criticism. — Boston 
Journal. 

Full, complete, and accurate, including all the latest words, and giving all their 
derivatives and correlatives. The definitions are short, but plain, the method of mak- 
ing pronunciation very simple, and the arrangement such as to give the best results 
in the smallest space. — Philadelphia Inquire? . 


Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

4ST - Harper & Brothers will send the above work by mail, postage prepaid , to any 
part of the United States or Canada, on receipt of the price. 


HAEPER’S WEEKLY FOE 1886. 


On the 2d of January, 1880, Harper’s Weekly entered upon the thirtieth year of 
its existence. The series of its volumes justifies its title as “A Journal of Civiliza- 
tion ” by reflecting, with steadily increasing fulness and accuracy, the progress of civ- 
ilization throughout the period which these volumes cover, and by embodying as well 
as by recording the continuous advance of American literature and American art. 

In Politics, Harper’s Weekly will continue to represent the principles of the Re- 
publican party, and of the Republican party organization in so far as that organization 
is the faithful exponent of those principles. Holding aloof from factional entangle- 
ments, it will attempt to give voice to the best and wisest sentiment of the w T hole 
country. It has borne an efficient part in the work of establishing the Reform of 
the Civil Service on such a basis that the early and complete triumph of the reform is 
no longer doubted, nor by any party openly opposed. 

In Literature, Harper's Weekly for 1886 will be signalized by the publication of 
two important and striking serials. One of these is by Mr. Thomas Haroy, whose 
position among the foremost of living writers of fiction is unchallenged; the other by 
Mr. Walter Besant, one of the most rapidly rising of English novelists. Short stories 
by popular writers will continue to be features of the paper, which will also contain 
from time to time important articles on special subjects by acknowledged authorities. 

In Art, it will be the aim of the publishers of the Weekly to continue, and if possible 
to increase, the rate of progress heretofore maintained in its illustrations. Within the 
past year its pages have contained, in the illustration of such events as the inaugura- 
tion of President Cleveland, the death and national funeral of General Grant, the 
dedication of Niagara Falls to the public, and the series of international yacht races, 
pictures which it is safe to say had not been approached in fidelity or in artistic ex- 
cellence by any work previously done in this country in the department of illustrated 
journalism. With regard to foreign events, the exclusive arrangements of the pub- 
lishers with some of the leading illustrated journals of Europe furnish a guarantee 
that its readers will have the earliest and best representations attainable of all occur- 
rences abroad that are of interest to Americans. 

As a family journal, the care that has been successfully exercised in the past to 
make Harper’s Weekly a safe, as well as a welcome, visitor to every household will 
not be relaxed in the future. The ultimate influence of the subjects treated in its text 
and in its illustrations is not less considered than their immediate public interest. It 
is conducted in the belief that such scenes as would be repulsive or brutalizing to per- 
sons witnessing them cannot form fit subjects for literary or pictorial representation. 


HARPER’S PERIODICALS. 


HARPER’S MAGAZINE Per Year $4 00 

HARPER’S WEEKLY “ 4 00 

HARPER S BAZAR “ 4 00 

HARPER’S YOUNG PEOPLE “ 2 00 

HARPER’S FRANKLIN SQUARE LIBRARY (52 

Numbers) “ 10 00 

HARPER’S HANDY SERIES (52 Numbers) . . “ 15 00 


Subscriptions to any of the Periodicals will begin with the Number current at the 
time of receipt of order, except in cases where the subscriber otherwise directs. 

Remittances should be made by Post-Office Money Order or Draft, to avoid risk of 
loss. 


Address, 


HARPER & BROTHERS, Franklin Square, New York. 







































* . 






I 




















■ 





















♦ * 















































' 1 

































































































































> 

jj 

» ‘ 

>: 

► > 

?> 

>>> 

(*> 

> 














